


#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

by randomsquare



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she's winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU





	1. Prologue

**Last year**

_**Emma** _

It all started with a proposal.

A lot of things do. They precede any big undertaking, after all. Business deals. Engagements. Murders for hire.

Or if you're Emma Swan, they might precede awkwardly comforting your crying ex-boyfriend in the parking lot behind an Italian restaurant after you've just broken his heart into little, itty bitty pieces.

Maybe if she'd been the type of girl who'd dreamt of her wedding day since she was a little girl, it all would have gone another way. Her friend, Mary Margaret, was like that. She'd had every single detail of her lavish but intimate ceremony planned out in her head a decade ahead of time, a stash of bridal magazines hidden underneath her mattress, like porn.

Maybe if Emma had been more like that, she would've scooped that ring right up off that dessert platter, and wept happy tears as her husband-to-be helped slide it onto her finger.

But she wasn't. So she didn't.

Sure, it wasn't all bad, with the nice dinners and surprise lunch dates. Respectful missionary sex and flowers on Valentine's Day. The goodnight texts and weekend trips away. But it wasn't… it wasn't _it_ , for Emma. He wasn't _it_.

She was never going to be Mrs. Walsh Norman. There would be no happily ever after, no disappearing into the sunset in a rented convertible, built for two. It just wasn't on the cards.

And, oh yeah, they needed to break up. Like, yesterday.

To say things hadn't gone exactly how Walsh had been imagining was maybe the understatement of the year. Instead he sat there, blindsided, his platter of artisanal gelato melting into a forgotten puddle in front of him as he came to terms. And there was Emma, forced into the role of reluctant voyeur as he cycled through all five stages of grief.

 _Denial_. "What do you mean, over? Emma, you can't mean that!"

 _Anger_. "I thought you were happy. Or was that just a lie, too?"

 _Bargaining_. "Emma, darling, we can work this out."

 _Depression_. "My therapist told me I love too easily. It's true, isn't it?"

 _Acceptance_. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we're just not compatible enough. I  _knew_  you were lying when you said you liked jazz."

It was about then that the crying started up, great heaving sobs that had other diners turning around in alarm, and the wait staff scurrying back into the kitchen to make sure no one had popped the champagne early. Crying which didn't seem to abate at all, even as Emma paid the bill and coaxed him outside, away from the peanut gallery.

It wasn't until she bundled him into a taxi that he seemed to calm down a little, enough to offer up a watery smile, a small kiss pressed to her cheek. "Take care of yourself, Emma."

And thus ended Emma Swan's longest relationship to date. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

She wanted to feel guilty. Okay, she felt a  _little_  guilty. There was no way an engagement ring with a rock that size had been cheap. And clearly,  _clearly_ , Walsh had been more invested in their relationship than she had ever been.

But mostly? Mostly she was relieved.

So relieved she tipped the cab driver double, and walked the rest of the way home, humming a tune under her breath she hadn't heard in months.

* * *

"So, uh, Walsh proposed last night."

It seemed like a good time as any. Sunday night dinner was in full effect, the sauvignon blanc just beginning to take hold. The whole gang was there. Mary Margaret and her fantasy dreamboat husband, David. Ruby and Victor, doing a poor imitation of two people who weren't screwing. August and Jefferson, arguing over revisions for August's newest book.

The tackle came from her left, almost knocking her from her chair. Ruby, of course, making a desperate grab for her left hand. Upon finding Emma's ring finger tellingly vacant, the brunette let out a jubilant whoop, leaning over to wrap her in a celebratory chokehold.

"Oh, thank god," David sighed from across the table, his face falling into his hands. There was a murmur of agreement from the other guys.

Not exactly the scenario she'd been roleplaying in the car on the ride over.

Emma blinked, stunned. "I uh.. Let me get this straight," she said, shaking herself free herself from Ruby's clutches. "None of you liked him? Like, at all?" Her words were met with nothing but suspicious silence, six sets of eyes determined to avoid her gaze.

"Mary Margaret?" she said, turning on her oldest friend. "What about that double date thing we did down in Portland? That was  _your_  idea!" Emma accused.

"I was being supportive," Mary Margaret responded in a small voice, shrinking under the weight of Emma's scrutiny. "More potatoes anyone?" she asked the room at large, before rising from her seat and disappearing into the kitchen with unusual haste.

Emma caught Jefferson's eye across the table. "You invited him to your daughter's christening!"

He shrugged sheepishly. "I wanted to make it an even number."

" _Seriously?_  I've been seeing the guy for eight months, and  _now_  you all tell me you don't like him? What if I'd said yes?"

"Then we would have kept our mo-" But whatever else Victor had been about to say came to a premature end after someone, most likely David, kicked him under the table.

Emma turned on Ruby next. " _You're_  the one who said I should go out with him in the first place!"

"Yeah," Ruby admitted. "So you could get laid. I didn't think you'd keep him! He's so…" She trailed off, the right word temporarily escaping her.

 _Decent. Stable. Reliable_. All those adjectives that had practically been a revelation to Emma in the beginning. It's why they'd stayed together as long as they had. It's why Emma could admit to a flicker of temptation when she first glimpsed that solitaire diamond twinkling under the electric chandelier. It would have been a nice life. A contented life. No fireworks, but something solid. Something to rely on. If only Emma could have settled for it.

"Normal," Emma supplied glumly, taking a long sip of wine. "Unlike me."

"Oh, honey, no!" Emma wasn't sure exactly when Mary Margaret had come skulking back into the room, but now it was apparently her turn to come up and squeeze the life out of Emma, boa-constrictor style. "There's nothing wrong with you!"

"Oh, sure," Emma coughed, trying to get some air back into her lungs. She could feel the tears starting to well up, unbidden, as Mary Margaret pulled away. "Only I had a great guy offer me this fancy ring and instead of saying yes, like a normal person, I dumped him."

"Emma-" But whatever words of consolation Mary Margaret were about to offer up quickly fell away when Ruby stood up.

"Prosaic!" she shouted, looking pleased with herself.

David's head dropped back down into his hands. Mary Margaret glared.

"What?" Ruby asked. "What did I say?"

* * *

Emma hadn't had a cigarette in two years, but somehow she still found herself out on the back porch after dessert, feeling around inside the bird feeder for David's secret stash.  _Paydirt._  One crumpled half pack of Camels and a BIC lighter. She drew the lighter out and gave it an experimental flick, but no flame was forthcoming, just a shower of useless sparks.

" _Great_."

"You made the right call." The words came from just behind her, and Emma wheeled around in alarm, dropping the lighter into a potted geranium in the process.

August, of course. He delighted in skulking around unnoticed. It was his  _thing_. He said it made him a better writer, being able to observe others without their realizing. Emma might have said it was textbook creeper behavior, but August rarely asked.

"Shit, August," she said, slapping him on the shoulder. "I thought you were Mary Margaret come to bust me!"

He shrugged, leaning down into the pot to retrieve the lighter. Of course, when he flicked it, it worked first time.  _Figured._

She shook a cigarette loose and placed it between her teeth, leaning close so he could light it.

"You think Mary Margaret knows about David's enduring nicotine addiction?" Emma asked, handing the pack over.

"I think we all underestimate that woman," August offered, cryptically. "You made the right call," he repeated. "With Walsh."

Emma let out a soft chuckle. "You sure about that? You didn't have much to say about it over dinner."

He tilted his head meaningfully, as he inhaled his first lungful.

"Maybe," Emma mused. "It felt right at the time. Good, even. Like I'd dodged a bullet. Now I just feel like maybe I made a huge mistake. Like I'm waiting around for some magical thing that's never going to happen, and I missed my shot at something real."

" _Fuck that_ ," he said, with more ferocity than she'd expected.

"Excuse me?"

"Fuck that, and fuck normal. Emma, you were right not to marry the guy. Just because he's not a certified lunatic, or some abusive asshole, doesn't mean he's the right guy for you."

"Doesn't it?"

"Were you even in love with him?"

So it was going to be one of  _those_  conversations, apparently. The kind where Emma just had to dangle helplessly at the end of the line, and hope to god someone had the decency to cut her free.

Emma shrugged, cigarette smoke wafting between them. "I don't know. Maybe?"

" _Maybe?_ " August parroted scornfully. "Trust me, Em. If you really love someone,  _you know_. You made the right call."

Emma scrutinized the man in front of her, with his hipster beard and too earnest eyes. "Since when are you the expert?"

"I've been around," he shrugged vaguely, searching around for somewhere to collect the cigarette ash.

"I know you think it's cute when you're all mysterious and shit, but actually, it just makes me want to punch you. Repeatedly. In your stupid, mysterious face."

He gave her an enigmatic smile, and the desire to punch him grew exponentially. "Another reason you and Walsh would never work. Guy's a born pacifist if I ever saw one. Whereas you, on the other hand…" he trailed off meaningfully.

"Shut up," Emma said, itching to give him a shove but too stubborn to prove him right. She settled instead for grinding her cigarette under her heel with more force than was strictly necessary. "How's the book coming, anyway? You sold it, right?"

"Yep. A few revisions and it should be out by July. Then a few signings and festivals. Maybe even in Europe."

"And I thought I hated you  _before_ ," Emma laughed, leaning over to pick up the cigarette butt, making sure it was extinguished before dropping it into the pocket of her jacket.

"You could come," August offered.

"Yeah, sure," Emma scoffed, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I don't even have a passport."

"So? Get one. If you really want to see Europe, what's stopping you? Certainly not your long-term boyfriend."

Emma gave him a hard stare. "And my job? I'm not like you. I can't just jet off to places unknown with a credit card and a laptop, and emerge grinning six months later with a finished novel and a secret tattoo."

August's eyes narrowed at the tattoo mention, but he was not easily deterred. "They have colleges in Europe, Em. A lot of them. And they'd be lucky to have you teach."

"And screw up my chance at getting tenure?" Emma reasoned. "I have a  _mountain_  of student loans! There's no way I'll ever pay them back if I don't chase that brass ring."

"Suit yourself," August said. "But there are other ways to make money, you know."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Spare me the lecture, Mr Two Book Deal. We don't all have special talents. Some of us just have to work with the cards we were dealt."

August opened his mouth, but his rebuttal was quickly interrupted by the tell-tale screech of the sliding door. There was a shared look of panic, after which Emma reached over and plucked the cigarette from his lips, stepping on the evidence just as Mary Margaret came into view, looking between them with a frown.

"Everything okay?" she asked, warily.

"Fine!" Emma said in a strangled voice, holding her hand up to halt her friend's progress towards them, and the tell-tale stench of cigarette smoke that might give them away. She tried screwing her face up into something that seemed almost pained. "Just Walsh stuff, you know. We'll be there in a minute."

Mary Margaret looked doubtful, but nodded all the same. "Alright, well Jefferson brought some brandy. When you're ready..." Then with one last glance in their direction, she backed into the house slowly, the glass door squealing shut behind her.

"You think she suspects?" Emma asked, retrieving the second cigarette butt, searching around in vain for some fragrant bloom that might help mask their scent.

"Yes," August supplied, unhelpfully. "But if you really want to sell it, I'd turn on the waterworks. She's far too nice to interrogate a crying woman."

"Yeah, that's not happening," Emma said dismissively, starting back towards the sliding door. "Mary Margaret knows I don't get emotional over guys."

"Yet!" August called from behind her. Emma contented herself with flipping him off as she stepped back inside.

* * *

They say bad things come in threes. Emma had no idea who  _they_  were, exactly, or who had decided that  _they_  were the authorities on all things crappy. But, as usual,  _they_  were right.

Failed relationship?  _Check._  Disastrous dinner party? _Check_. What did that leave left to ruin, but Emma's fledgling academic career?

The knock at her office door came late on Monday afternoon, whilst Emma sat at her desk stuffing her face with Funions she'd liberated from the vending machine downstairs. Because what better look could there be, when the department head came a-calling?

His name was Archie, and as far as bosses went, he was on the less intimidating end of the spectrum. Soft spoken, with outdated glasses and unruly rust-coloured curls, Professor Hopper was the nerd in every 80s sitcom, all grown up. How he'd ever managed to beat out the more assertive members of the faculty for the job as department chair had always remained a bit of a mystery. Emma suspected nepotism. He didn't seem the type for blackmail.

Even so, Emma straightened up at once, stuffing the bag of chips into her desk drawer.

"Do you have a moment, Emma?"

"Sure," she said, trying to casually brush the crumbs from the front of her sweater, as the man folded himself into the only other available chair, pulling it up close to her desk.

"I'm sorry to just barge in like this, Emma. But I thought you deserved to hear it from me, personally."

Emma could feel that all-too-familiar sinking feeling settle uneasily in her stomach. "Hear… what?"

"I'm not quite sure how to put this…" the man fumbled, his face flushing slightly as his eyes were drawn deliberately to the college calendar tacked up behind Emma's desk. "Enrolments are down across the board for next year. So, in their divine wisdom, the board of governors have decided to gut the social sciences budget, to keep the business school afloat."

The back of Emma's throat felt scratchy, as she fumbled for the right response. "How bad?"

"We've already lost five in administration. They're hoping to lose another three teaching staff, if they can. They're offering voluntary redundancy. A tidy severance."

There was a meaningful silence, as the intent behind his words became clear.

"You want me to take it," Emma said, filling in the blanks.

The man looked almost pained. "I'm asking you to consider it. You're still the youngest member of the department. No family to think about. It might even be a good opportunity for you."

"A good opportunity," Emma repeated, flatly.

But if Professor Hopper noticed her lack of enthusiasm, he didn't let on. "Of course!" he said. "Isn't there something you've always wanted to do? Somewhere you've always wanted to go? Why not take that money and do something worthwhile? You finished your PhD at, what? 25? You're still so young, and there's so much more to life than academia!"

To Emma's ears, it sounded a whole lot like they'd already drafted up her resignation letter.

"I'll… uh… think about it," she managed.

Encouraged, the man brightened, rising from his chair to reach over for a handshake.

"Excellent," he said, in an annoyingly chipper tone. "I'll just let you… mull things over. In your own time, of course. Though if you could let me know by the end of the week…"

Emma may have slammed the door on him at that point. It was a small victory, but hell, she needed one. What could they do about it? Fire her?

* * *

Job hunting under the influence was par for the course. What did it matter if she had a class at 8am the next morning? They were expecting her gone by the end of the week anyway.

It started off small. Nearby colleges. A decent commute. But after an hour or so she found herself extending her search ever outwards, down into Massachusetts. Fuck it. Why not? It's not like she had anything keeping her specifically in Storybrooke. Her relationship with Walsh was over. Her career was over. Sure, she had her friends, but they all had their own shit going on. Getting married. Getting laid. Getting published.

What did Emma have? Nothing. Just a fat lot of nothing. A crapload of debt and a shabby little studio apartment with a short-term lease. Yeah,  _great._

It was nearing 2am, after she'd opened her second bottle of wine, that things really started getting a little ridiculous. She thought back to what August had said, about colleges in Europe. ' _Lucky to have her_ ,' he'd said.

He'd been lying, obviously. Not even her small-town liberal arts college had wanted her, but the wine had made her bold. Or stupid. Or both.

She couldn't speak French, obviously. Or German, or Spanish or any other of the myriad of languages she would need to get a job on the Continent. So that narrowed things down a bit. Ireland. The UK.

She'd taken a number of classes on British History as an undergrad, and there had been no shortage of material. The Battle of Hastings. The War of the Roses. Waterloo. Oliver Fucking Cromwell. At one point she'd been tempted to write her PhD about the Highland clearances, and the resulting Scottish diaspora, but she'd chickened out and settled for something a little closer to home. The good ol' American Revolution.

And that's when she saw it. Buried three pages back in her search. The University of Edinburgh needed a lecturer in American History for the next academic year.

 _Well_ , Emma thought, knocking back the rest of her glass,  _why the fuck not?_


	2. January

**_Emma_ **

Emma Swan had a PhD. Emma Swan had 1265 followers on Instagram. Emma Swan had every line of The Princess Bride memorized.

But one thing Emma Swan did not have?

Electricity.

She flicked the switch again, in the vain hope she'd just imagined it the first time. Nothing happened. She tried the outlet by the toaster. Nothing. Nada.

Because  _of fucking course_  Emma would wake up on the first day of the year to find her new apartment shrouded in unending darkness. Because what landlord in their right mind actually picked up the phone at 7am on January 1st? Hell, judging by what she'd seen out her window over the last few hours, they were probably just getting started on all their Hogmanay festivities. Everyone else seemed to be.

Only, Emma wasn't going to accept defeat right away. Sure, cold Pop-Tarts were okay in a pinch, but it was still freezing out and she had a mighty need to crank up her space heater and put on a pot of coffee. She was very motivated.

It went to voicemail three times before someone finally picked up, the voice on the other end of the line irate and decidedly not sober.

"What yae want?" the voice barked.

Oh  _joy_.

"Hi. I'm the new tenant in 2c? On Sciennes House Place?" She began, tentatively.

"Is it bloody well on fire?" came the unimpressed reply.

And to think, Emma was only three days into her twelve month lease. Clearly this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

"No, but it is dark." A meaningful pause. "Because the power is out. No electricity. None."

There was the sound of movement on the line, and a string of curses Emma only half understood. "And you filled the meter?"

For a moment, Emma wondered if she'd misheard. "Filled the… what?"

"The meter! The electricity meter, you daft girl. In the front cupboard, by the door. You've got to put pound coins in it, and turn the handle, or else the power will go out!"

Because that was super normal. And a little fact that might have easily been shared when she'd come to view the place. Or when she'd signed the lease. Or when she'd picked up the keys. Any of those times, really, would have been ideal.

"You mean I drop them in there?" Emma clarified. "Instead of being sent a bill?"

"Aye," grumbled the voice on the line. "Is that it then?"

God forbid they give their liver a whole five minutes reprieve. "Uh, I guess."

The line went dead without so much as a goodbye, and she resisted the urge to throw the phone in frustration. Instead she swallowed down her rage and focused on her new plan of attack.

Pound coins. Okay. She could do that. She backtracked to the kitchen by the dim light of her phone, to where she'd left her bag. Rummaging around a little she drew out her purse, sorting through the change she'd accumulated since Christmas. A grand total of £2.43.

After fighting her way through the extra sweaters she'd squirreled away in the front closet, she eventually discovered the bulky black outline of the promised electricity meter. With baited breath, she dropped in her first coin, letting it fall into the machine with a clatter. Then, she reached out and turned the crank. At last it clicked into place, and the room behind her lit up.

But her celebratory whoop was cut short when she caught sight of the actual meter reading by the newly returned light from the hallway. The needle had barely budged above zero. She was going to need a lot more coins. And soon.

* * *

It was still dark out when she hit the pavement, but Emma was far from the only one out and about. On the contrary, the streets still teemed with late night revellers who hadn't quite made it home yet. They traveled in packs. The giggling women in teetering heels, skirts too short for the weather. The men shouting slurred obscenities, trailed by the sound of glass bottles breaking against concrete. The all-night crowd, in all of their glory.

Emma hugged her jacket tighter around her, nuzzling her face further into her scarf.  _Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact._

"Nice night, darling?" One called out, but she pretended not to hear him, increasing her stride.

Only one more block. She could make it.

A slight figure stood sheltered in a doorway ahead of her, ragged and hungry-looking. "Spare any change, Miss?"

That was something that had honestly surprised her over the last few months. It wasn't just that Edinburgh seemed to have a proportionally high number of rough sleepers for its size. Or that they were strategically placed at all major thoroughfares, empty Costa Coffee cup at the ready. It was that they always seemed to be unfailing polite, no matter the hour or weather.

The irony of being asked for change at this very moment? She shot the girl an apologetic glance and kept walking, making a promise to herself she'd get the girl a sandwich or something on her way back.

But as she came up to the 24 hour convenience store on the corner, she noticed the windows weren't emitting their usual greenish fluorescent glow. In fact, they were dark, the doorway shuttered. There was a sign taped to the window with a note scrawled in black Sharpie.

_Closed for the bank holiday. Happy Hogmanay!_

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath, swallowing down the litany of curses that were on the tip of her tongue. Defeated, she jammed her hands back into the pockets of her jacket, turning back in the direction of her apartment.

"Any change for a cup o' tea?" she heard the homeless girl up ahead call to a passing couple. To her surprise, the guy stopped, the tell-tale clatter of coins as he dropped them into the cup.

Emma watched on, an idea forming. She waited for the couple to pass before she stopped before the girl, a ten pound note clutched in her hand.

"Hi. You wouldn't happen to have any pound coins, would you?"

* * *

She wouldn't say it was a mistake; what she'd tentatively titled:  _The Scottish Experiment_. After all, there were pros and cons with living any place.

 _Pro._  The chances of her running into her ex in the wine aisle at Sainsbury's were practically nil.

 _Pro._  Her Instagram game was on point. Her feed had become an embarrassment of crags, cobblestones and castles, and she derived a certain amount of pleasure from the swoony emojis left in the comments.

 _Pro._ Despite all the horror stories she'd heard about the Scottish weather, it was still a good twenty degrees warmer most days than it would have been back in Storybrooke.

And  _Pro._ Her friends from home were only a Skype date away.

She heard them before she saw them. The excited squeal of two liquored up girlfriends enamored by the marvels of modern technology. And then her Skype window flickered to life and she saw them too. Mary Margaret and Ruby, squashed together on Ruby's tiny blue sofa, both fighting to get their faces into the frame.

"Emma!" Ruby shouted, with the uncontrolled glee of the truly intoxicated. "I miss youuuu!"

Emma looked at her clock, and frowned. "Uh, it's 7pm there, right? Did someone get an early start on happy hour?"

Instead of answering, Ruby grabbed a wine glass from out of the frame and took a big gulp, leaving the floor open for Mary Margaret.

"Victor got a job offer from Storybrooke General," she explained, with a smile. "We've been celebrating."  _Since noon, it seemed like._  Her cheeks too were a little on the rosy side, but at least she had her volume under control.

"Hell yeah, we have!" came Ruby's exuberant reply.

"Oh," said Emma, scrambling for the right response. "That great!"

"And now he can give up that apartment in Portland and move in here!"

"Wow. Ruby, that's…"  _Out of character._  "...a huge step."

"I know!" Ruby agreed, settling back down on the couch. "But I'm really fucking happy, you know?"

She looked it, too, her grin stretching from ear to ear. And though Emma might've recently stood on a rooftop at 2 am with a bottle of whisky and declared herself an enemy of love, she couldn't deny Ruby's sheer joy was touching.

"I never thought I'd see the day," Emma admitted. "You guys spent, what? The better part of ten years circling around each other? But I'm really happy for you."

She held a hand up to the screen, smiling when Ruby did the same. Then Mary Margaret let out a drunken giggle, and placed her hand over Ruby's and Emma heart broke a little at the schmaltz of it all.

"Speaking of Victor," she said, removing her hand, "shouldn't you guys be umm… celebrating together?" she asked.

"We will, later," Ruby said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "First I wanted to talk to you! How are you? How's Scotland? How're the Scottish guys?" The last one was accompanied with a salacious waggle of her perfectly tinted eyebrows.

"It's great. Scotland's great! Haven't you seen my Instagram?"

"I loved that one of the castle!" Mary Margaret piped up. "With the mist and everything?" She let out a cry of frustration, burying her head momentarily into her hands. "God, I'm so jealous of you! Please tell me you're having a good time."

"Sure I am. I mean, I've been a little busy getting the new apartment set up and everything, but yeah, it's great."

"And the Scottish guys?" Ruby cut in, not be ignored.

"Honestly? I haven't met that many yet. Not unless you count my students, which err… gross, or my boss, which umm… no. But I'm sure there are lots of Jamie Fraser types right around the corner."

 _Con._  There were  _not_  a lot of Jamie Fraser types right around the corner. Because Jamie Fraser was fictional. Tragically.

"And friends?" Mary Margaret prompted, preventing Emma from delving headfirst into any Highlander fantasies.

"Oh, um… I'm working on it. Some people in my department are really nice."

 _Con._  Emma's introduction to the history department had been lackluster, bordering on negligent. It seemed to be populated almost exclusively by hungover grad students and career academics decades her senior, and they'd welcomed her into their midst with about as much enthusiasm as they would the guy emptying the trash bins.

"It's a work in progress," she continued. "But it's not like college, right? Where you just so happen to land the world's clingiest roommate, and she bullies you into being her best friend?"

Mary Margaret shot her a warm smile at the memory. "You were a tough nut to crack. But don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fine."

Emma wasn't so confident. A childhood in the system and abandonment issues aplenty didn't exactly leave you with stellar social skills. In Emma's experience, trust had to be earned. And earned. And earned. Fortunately, Mary Margaret and her merry band of well-adjusted hangers on had always been up to the challenge.

 _Con._  They weren't around anymore. And that was entirely Emma's fault.

* * *

Sure, it was a cliche. An American going all the way to Scotland just to sit in a fucking Starbucks. But in Emma's defense, an epic view of the castle through the picture windows  _did_ help. It was the kind of view that was worth supporting a tax-dodging multinational conglomerate for. That and the independent around the corner was full.

She might have preferred to drink her coffee and answer student emails in the comfort of her own office, but being the new kid on the block, she was still stuck sharing with an archaeology professor from Leeds, and he had office hours.

Still, she felt she'd made the best of a bad situation. She had a warm beverage and the best view in the house. Hell, it would have been perfect if it wasn't for the fact she was pretty certain the guy in the corner was staring at her. Not at his phone, sitting abandoned on the table in front of him. Not the morning edition of  _The Scotsman_  clutched in his hands. Not even the million dollar view behind her. Just her.

After ten minutes of it, Emma had had enough, shutting her laptop lid and sliding out from behind her table to confront him.

"Do I know you?" she asked, her words barbed and poised for action.

"You're her, aren't you?" he said, excitedly.

"Who?" Emma asked, wondering if she'd been mistaken for someone important.

"Emma Swan?" he said, pointing down to where his newspaper lay open.

"How the fu-" But Emma never bothered finishing the question.

Because the answer was staring her right in the face, in the guise of a full-page color advertisement.

It was a picture of her. She recognized it immediately as one August had taken last summer, at her farewell party. It was one of those rare photos, that somehow managed to tow the line between candid and flattering, without showing how drunk she'd really been. She liked that picture. She'd made it her fucking Facebook profile picture.

She blinked, but the image didn't shift. It just sat there, seared onto her retinas, along with the words that had been emblazoned across her face in glaring crimson:

_#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_

_Oh, fuck._

* * *

_No one saw it,_  Emma repeated under her breath, as she navigated the halls, avoiding eye contact.  _No one saw it. You're being paranoid. Nobody actually reads the newspaper anymore._

Only, someone had. Or a bunch of 18 year old someones, most likely, because when Emma returned to her creaky old office on the third floor it was to find the Archaeology professor gone, the door jimmied open, and her colleagues gathered in an indiscreet circle in the hallway, sniggering.

She pushed past them, not bothering to offer up any words of apology. They had it coming. Then, steeling herself for a moment, she stepped into the open doorway to survey the devastation.

It was her. Or more accurately, her face. Everywhere. On everything. Someone had gone to the trouble of cutting out five hundred copies of that fucking ad, and plastered it all over every available surface on her half of the room. Her desk. Her filing cabinets. Her bookshelf. Her fucking coat rack. Not even the light fixtures had been spared.

Someone was going to die, and Emma knew exactly who she was going to kill first.

* * *

"You're dead to me."

Emma had always found it helpful to begin with a statement of intent.

"Ohhh, so you saw it then? Do you like it?!" Ruby asked, excitedly.

"What the _fuck_ have you done?!"

The sheer venom of her delivery must have tipped her off to Emma's general mood, because Ruby's next words were considerably more measured.

"Surprise?"

"Do you have  _any_  idea what you just did?!"

"Helped you? Look, I know it's a little…"

"INSANE?!"

"I was going to say  _obvious,_ but okay."

"How the hell did you even afford that? A full page is like…" Emma wasn't exactly up on  _The Scotsman_ 's advertising rates, but she was sure it was hardly comparable to the likes of the  _Storybrooke Mirror._

"Oh, we all chipped in," Ruby supplied breezily.

"We  _all_? You mean, more people than just you were privy to this insane plan and DIDN'T STOP YOU?!"

"And their advertising guy knocked a bit off the price," Ruby admitted, ignoring Emma's last question entirely. "I mean, I know I'm with Victor and everything, but his accent,  _wow_. I have no idea how you stand it every day. I mean, he was only talking about pixels or something and already half wanted to take my clothes-"

Emma ended the call before she had to hear any more.

* * *

It didn't blow over.

By day's end she was a trending topic on Twitter, her phone blowing up with messages.

 _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_  had gone viral.

Helped along, no doubt, by the social media savvy students who'd defaced her office. Or maybe the ones who interrupted the middle of her afternoon seminar on Jim Crow laws with a riotous rendition of  _Why Can't We Be Friends?_ on motherfucking rollerskates.

Fucking theatre students.

That one had seen her raked over the coals by her head of department, after which followed a terse lecture on  _professionalism,_ and  _setting an example._ And she could hardly miss the highlighted relevant sections of the  _Policy on Employee Use of Social Media_ tacked to her office door the following morning.

So... her boss thought she was an attention-whore.

To make matters worse, there was website that had been set up to accompany the ad. Emma sat up until 3am watching the hit counter tick over with growing agitation. Nearly a quarter of a million hits. She didn't even dare to check the inbox of the accompanying email account.

She was officially a national laughing stock.

Perhaps she should just call it.  _The Scottish Experiment_ , such as it was, had been a mistake. A cataclysmically huge mistake.

* * *

**_Killian_ **

Somewhere nearby, a child was screaming.

That was the first thing Killian Jones registered upon waking. The second was the low moan of his bedmate, as she burrowed deeper into the cocoon of blankets beside him.

"Make it stop," came the muffled whine from underneath the duvet, New Zealand accent unmistakable.

The third: he'd slipped up and taken Tink home again.

_Bloody hell._

He sat up with a start, the fourth revelation of the morning exploding with sudden painful clarity behind his eyelids. The vodka had been a mistake. A grave, grave mistake.

Careful not to jostle Tink as she lay with a pillow over her head, drowning out the worst of the screams, he searched his floor for his prosthesis. There was no sign, but he did turn up last night's jeans. They too, were a little worse for wear, a sizable rip in one knee that definitely hadn't been there before, but he slipped them on anyway, his efforts made clumsy by his lack of prosthetic. His shirt proved somewhat harder to locate, eventually discovered in a suspiciously sticky state on his bathroom floor. He chose to forego the shirt.

"Back in a moment, lass," he whispered to the form under the covers.

"You need to move out," was the gruff reply, as she rolled over onto her side.

_No arguments there._

Then, with a sigh, Killian unlocked the door and padded out into the hallway, in the direction of the shrieking.

Lachlan, more commonly referred to as Lachie the Devilchild, or the Lachie Ness Monster, was doing what he did best, sitting up is his custom-built racing car bed in a puddle of his own urine, screaming blue bloody murder.

"Hey, hey, lad. It's alright now," Killian said, in what might pass for a soothing tone. At the sound of his voice, the caterwauling ceased at once, as the boy turned to look at him with giant blue eyes, thick with tears.

"Uncle Killian," the boy sobbed, tiny fists clutching at his sodden pyjama pants. "I had an accident."

Lachie, aged four, was Killian's least favourite nephew. Some people liked to pretend they loved all their family members equally, but those people had probably not taken night terrors into account. There was plenty of time for the boy to rise in the rankings when he was older.

Killian crouched down low beside the bed, and placed a consolatory hand on the boy's shoulder. His eyes were watering from the smell, but he forced a smile. "Aye, lad. You did. But it's alright, happens to the best of us. How about we get you all cleaned up then, and let your parents sleep, eh?"

The boy obediently held his arms out for Killian to lift him out of his plywood prison, but before he could get a hold of him, one of the parents in question rounded the doorway, looking harassed. Liam. All six feet of him, swathed in fetching tartan pyjamas and a sour expression. The state of his flannel shirt, the buttons done up all wrong, hinted at what might have kept him.

He stopped dead when he saw Killian standing there, turning his scowl into a curt, "Morning," before stepping forward to tend his son.

"Another nightmare?" Liam asked the boy in a softer tone, leaning over to gather him in his arms.

The boy nodded as he clung to his father, stricken. "You were gone, and Mummy was gone, and Callum was gone, and Uncle Killian was gone. You all left me all alone and I couldn't find-" his little voice cracked, a fresh flood of tears falling from his eyes.

"'Hey now," Liam crooned, rubbing soothing circles into the boy's back. "It's alright. Daddy's here now. And no one is ever leaving you alone, got it?"

Lachie didn't answer, just tightened his grip, as his father lifted him out of bed with an exaggerated groan. "Christ, you're even heavier than you were yesterday. At this rate, you'll be fully grown in a couple of weeks."

The boy lifted his face away from where he was cradled against his father's chest to fix him with an admonishing look. "Don' be silly, Daddy,' he chided, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his pyjama shirt. "I'm still a boy!"

"Are you sure?" Liam asked as he set him down, peering down at his youngest son with teasing eyes.

"Yes!" The boy shouted, a playful shove to his father's shoulder. "Tell him, Uncle Killian!"

Liam turned, as if surprised to see Killian still standing there, hungover and shirtless. "Out gallivanting, again?" The tone was playful, but the look accusatory. But before he could raise a word in his own defence, a second parent crossed the threshold, rendering them all mute.

Elsa had that effect on people. Even sleep rumpled as she was, with purple bags under her eyes and the oversized grey T-shirt she wore as a nightie frayed and stretched to her knees, she was striking. And just like the descendant of lesser Scandinavian royalty she was rumoured to be, she surveyed the scene in front of her with a kind of calm indifference. But as her gaze fell at last on her youngest son the facade cracked somewhat, a tender smile curving her lips.

"Mummy!" Lachie cried.

He made a lunge for her, but Liam scooped him up out of mid air. "Not so fast, little monster. How about we get you into a bath first, eh? Then you can cuddle your Mummy as much as you want."

The lad kicked up a fuss, but Liam held fast, threats to withhold pancakes whispered into the boy's ear until he settled quietly in his arms. "Good little monster. Now, bath time!" Liam said, making for the door.

Elsa shot her husband a grateful glance as the two of them made their exit, disappearing down the hall. Only once they were out of earshot did she sag a little, letting her exhaustion show. "Thanks, Killian. Sorry, we were-"

"Lalalalala," Killian said, his fingers in his ears. "I really don't require details."

She smiled at that, going over to strip the bed, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. "Just a thank you, then."

"It's no bother."

She shot him a skeptical look.

"Alright, so he's the child of Satan," Killian relented with a smile. "But he  _does_ have your bone structure, so all hope is not lost. And it's the least I can do. Since, you know…" He waved his stump awkwardly in the air between them.

"Nonsense," said Elsa, rising to her full height with a mess of stinking bedsheets clutched in her arms. "You know we love having you here."

"Even Liam?" Killian asked wryly.

"Yes," Elsa smiled warmly, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek as she passed. "Especially Liam. No matter what he says."

"He says plenty," Killian muttered under his breath.

Elsa turned towards him in the doorway with a frown. "It's hard for him, I think. He's so used to playing the father, he forgets you don't need one anymore. But let me worry about that." There was a sudden flash of mischief in her eyes. "And  _you_  can worry about the girl you left in your room."

_So much for stealth._

"Should I set a place for this one?" she asked, slyly. "I'm making chocolate pancakes."

"Err... she's gluten intolerant," Killian mumbled, brushing past her out into the hallway.

"Maybe one day you'll bring home a girl who you  _want_ to have pancakes with your family?" Elsa teased.

Killian gave her a tight smile. "Perhaps."

Or perhaps pigs might fly.

* * *

Barely two weeks into the New Year, and he'd already broken two resolutions. He'd gotten scuttered on a weeknight  _and_ he'd fallen into Tinker Bell's orbit again. In fact, one had begotten the other, like a series of sinister dominoes.

He'd  _planned_ on having an early night. Just one beer. Out long enough he wouldn't be dragged into the entire bath-bed-story rigmarole when he arrived home, but not late enough to fall in with the Antipodean crowd when they shuffled in after 9.

Clearly, there had been a miscalculation somewhere along the way.

One Killian was now atoning for as he walked briskly along Princes Street, that rare Scottish winter sun peeking out from behind the gothic spire of the Scott Monument, every golden gleam of light like a stab wound to the head.

Coffee might save him. Elsa's pancakes certainly hadn't done the trick, and nor had Liam's disapproving glare from the head of the table, the self-righteous bastard. Coffee was his last hope.

Energised by that thought, Killian bound up the stairs to the first floor cafe with the most enthusiasm he'd displayed all morning, nearly crashing headlong into a blonde in a red leather jacket standing at the top of the stairs.

"Apologies, lass," he said, reaching out to grip the banister with his good hand. "But if you'd be so kind as to move out of the way…"

She turned around slowly, an attractive face twisted into something pissed off and clearly caffeine deprived. "No, because this is where the line ends," she snapped, clearly at her wit's end. "And if you think I'm letting you cut ahead of me-" she trailed off, the threat implied.  _American_ , he realised after a moment. It certainly explained a lot.

It was only as Killian gave her a brief once-over, that he noticed that he too, was under inspection. Something that might have been cause to smirk, if he hadn't caught the exact moment she clocked the prosthetic peeking out from under his left sleeve, her eyes growing infinitesimally larger, her cheeks reddening slightly.

"I uh… I…didn't mean..."

"Nevermind, love," he said, stuffing the offending limb into the pocket of his jacket. "Been waiting long?"

He craned his neck, surveying the line in front of them as the doors to the cafe swung open, a pair of teenagers emerging clutching steaming to-go cups.

"Fifteen minutes, so far."

And she was still the last one in line.  _Damn it._

He consulted his watch. A quarter of an hour until the staff meeting, and he still had to traverse half of Princes Street in that time. He wasn't going to make it. But before he could throw in the towel, the lass in front of him beat him to it.

"Fuck this!" she declared, hands raising her hands in defeat. "I'm out. Starbucks it is."

She motioned for him to take her place as she passed him, and he watched her go, half amused, half wishing he could follow her lead. Until he realised his staff meeting wouldn't keep until after waiting in yet another queue. With a long-suffering sigh, he turned and fled down the stairwell after her, and out onto the street.

The instant at work would have to suffice.

* * *

Work was with  _Saorsa,_  Scotland's premier monthly magazine. Though owed by a Swede, edited by an Englishman, and staffed by a random assortment of European nationals as it was, also about as authentically Scottish as the cheap plastic tat they hawked to tourists along the Royal Mile.

Their poky little offices sat on Rutland Square in the West End, the rooms still furnished with the same fussy Victorian wallpaper they'd sported back before they'd been converted into offices. The chandelier from some old dame's parlour still hung over the conference table around which Killian's colleagues sat in readiness, as he stepped through the door with his mug of Nescafe.

"Nice of you to join us," Liam drawled, from where he sat at the head of the table, rolling a stress ball between his fingers.

_All those who naturally assumed that working under the direction of one's immediate family might be some kind of advantage, had clearly never worked under Liam Jones._

Killian settled for raising his mug in his brother's direction in a mocking salute, before taking his vacant seat.

"Alright," said Liam at last, setting down the stress ball and rubbing his hands together. "We've got a week until we go to print, let me to see where you're all at. Cindy?"

It was the usual tosh.

Most of  _Saorsa_ 's subscribers were pensioners, or expats living abroad. They didn't want hard hitting current affairs, or in-depth exposés. A monthly magazine was hardly the place anyway, in the age of the 24 hour news cycle. What they really wanted was to read about the Scotland that still lived inside their rose-tinted imaginations. Where the Bay City Rollers were still relevant and the only crime came from the fevered imaginings of best-selling local authors, profiled on page 9.

So if Killian happened to tune out for the majority of a meeting detailing puff pieces on SNP politicians and an exhaustive review of the King's Theatre Pantomime, it wasn't due to any particular malice on his part. He was just bored to tears.

But perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised when Liam held him back after the meeting, as if he were some unruly schoolboy.

"You could at least  _pretend_  to be interested," Liam admonished, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "The last thing I need is everyone thinking I'm playing favourites."

_Little chance of that._

"If you have a problem with my copy-" Killian began, but Liam cut him off.

"Your know damn well your copy isn't the problem, Killian. It's your attitude! Can you honestly tell me you were fully engaged just now? Giving your colleagues the respect and attention they deserve?"

Knowing he didn't really expect an answer, Killian settled for a shrug.

"Look, I know you were out last night-"

"Oh, come off it!" Killian cut in. "Don't give me that sanctimonious bullshit. If I'm any worse for wear this morning, it's more down to the screechings of  _your_  little hellion than any  _gallivanting_ I might have done!"

Liam was silent, but Killian still caught it, the sight of that familiar vein throbbing in his brother's forehead as he swallowed back the words they both knew he truly wished to say.

_So why don't you just leave then?_

But that was the thing about having a fuck up, cripple for a brother. You never actually  _vocalised_ such thoughts, lest everyone think you're some kind of monster.

"I'm sorry, I…" Liam began.

"Save it for the motivational memo," Killian responded drily, rising to his feet. "I've still got to hammer down a meeting with Ruth Davidson's chief of staff. Unless there's anything else?"

He almost made it outside before Liam spoke again. "Oh! I forgot to mention. I'd like you to start brainstorming ideas for the next  _Slice of Life_. It's yours now."

Killian turned abruptly in the doorway.

"The  _Slice of Life_  column? You mean the one where they interview postmen and the people who collect the bins? Read exclusively by little old ladies and people lining their litter boxes? I don't bloody think so! What about Ian?"

Liam frowned. "He retired at Christmas. We had a going away party for him? For chrissakes, Killian, you signed the bloody card!"

_Ah. So that's what that had all been about. Now he thought about it, Ian's wife was maybe the wrong side of fifty to be welcoming a new baby._

"Of course," Killian blustered, "Crieff, wasn't it? To raise alpacas?"

"Kelso," Liam sighed in a long-suffering way. "And it was llamas."

"Aren't they the same thing?"

Killian only just managed to duck the stress ball aimed at his head. "Get out!" his brother ordered. "And learn how to use Wikipedia!"

* * *

The  _Slice of Life_  column.  _Bloody hell_. Was there no end to the day's indignities?

The previous incarnation had simply been an excuse for Ian McKenzie to sit in his local on the magazine's dime, chatting up barflies under the guise of "celebrating the everyman." His interviews were usually conducted about four pints in, and it showed, the questions about as shallow as a frying pan.

Favourite films. Secret recipes. Thoughts on Independence. Truly banal details from the most mundane people alive.

If Liam thought Killian was up for continuing this tradition of celebrating mediocrity, then he was sorely mistaken. Killian may have cut a few corners in his time, but a man still had to have his pride.

Only, he had no real idea where to begin.

It was a dilemma he puzzled over during the quieter moments. After the boys had gone to bed, and he stayed up late reading Patrick O'Brian novels. As he chowed down on his midday panini to the soundtrack of Rai Uno at his favourite Italian place on Leith Walk.

He even took to avoiding Liam in case he asked him about it, none too easy a task considering he lived and worked with the man. And the very reason he came to be sitting in the Cambridge Bar Friday evening, downing a few ales with the lads when Will gave a low whistle, holding up his copy of  _The Scotsman_  so the rest of them could see.

It was hardly risque. A snapshot of a blonde woman caught in a candid party moment, head thrown back in laughter. Killian had staged enough "candid" shots in his time to know this was the genuine article, but that wasn't the interesting part. Nor was the fact that she was clearly gorgeous. Rather it was hashtag that had been printed over the photograph, striking in red.

_#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_

"Imagine a girl like, having trouble befriending anyone," Will snickered. "They'd be lining up around the bloody block."

Robin and John hummed half-heartedly, eyes already drawn back to the screen in the corner, but Killian was inclined to agree. The lass was rather pretty. And if he wasn't mistaken, just the tiniest bit familiar.

"Hang on," he said, pulling the paper towards him. "I think I've met her."

"One of your  _women_?" Robin cajoled. "You  _have_  had a thing for the blondes lately."

"That wasn't code for  _I've slept with her_ ," Killian snapped, causing Robin to dive back into his ale, chastened. "I think I've actually met her."

But where? He doubted he'd seen her up at Holyrood, whilst chasing after Ruth Davidson. She didn't  _look_ like a Tory. Then, in a flash of red it came to him. The lass at the coffee shop. The one on the stairs. The American. He  _knew_ she'd looked familiar. And judging by this, she was just as entertaining when she wasn't standing in coffee queues.

Very entertaining, even. Entertaining enough to appeal to little old ladies and the Scottish diaspora, perhaps?

There was only one way to find out. The seed had been planted. All Killian needed to do now was find this Emma Swan.

* * *

It took four days of dodging Liam's calls and haunting every coffee shop in central Edinburgh before he got lucky. But fortunately for Killian, this American's caffeine addiction had finally overridden her sense of self-preservation.

She'd done her best to fly under the radar, he had to give her that. Squirrelled away in a corner booth as she was, woollen hat pulled down low to cover that trademark blonde hair, thick black frames instead of contacts. He might not have recognised her at all, if it weren't for the jacket. Red leather, just as he remembered.

"Excuse me, lass. Do you have a moment?"

She didn't look too happy when she noticed him standing there. That too, was familiar. She was a bit of a spitfire by his recollection, and he was keen not to set her off too soon.

"I'm sorry," he said, laying on the graciousness. "We met the other day. Do you remember? On the stairs?"

He let his left sleeve fall a little, and the moment she caught sight of the prosthetic he knew she did. Only of course, it wasn't going to be quite that easy.

" _So?_ " she replied shortly, eyes wandering back down to the tablet resting on the tabletop.

"I'm afraid I never got a chance to introduce myself. My name's Killian. Killian Jones."

"I really didn't ask, Killian Jones," she said, her tone deceptively sweet, even as she kept her gaze fixed on the tablet.

"I'm aware of that, lass. But I thought it might be best to even the playing field a little, seeing as I know your name."

 _That_  got her attention, her eyes snapping up to meet his. "Listen, buddy," she said, her voice low and vicious. "If you're here to make fun of me, or to hit me with some really bad pick-up line you've been saving, I'd really rather you just left."

"Been a rough couple of days, I take it?"

She shot him a long-suffering look. "You have  _no_  idea. _"_

_He was beginning to think he might._

"Alas, I'm not here to make fun. Or to make any overtures, though you are lovely. I am however, a member of the fourth estate..."

"And that's my cue," Emma declared, rising from her seat, and cutting short his prepared monologue. Instead she packed away her tablet and reached across to drain the last of her cup. "Have a nice life, Killian Jones," she said, patting him on the shoulder as she passed. "Follow me outside and you lose the other hand."

* * *

Some people might have taken Emma's reticence as off-putting, but Killian loved a challenge. Certainly, the threat of bodily harm had been a bit disquieting, but the lass was unlikely to follow through. Not before he laid out his pitch, anyway. And if she still wanted nothing to do with him after? Well, then he would jump off that bridge when he came to it.

She wasn't hard to find. Even though her social media had been carefully scrubbed of all incriminating details, such as place of work or contact details, a simple Google search turned up her name as the author of a number of scholarly articles under the broader scope of American History.

So Emma Swan possessed both brains and beauty. And what looked to be an unhealthy fixation with the life and times of John Jay, if he wasn't mistaken.

A short trawl through the staff directory of the University of Edinburgh turned up not only Emma's job description: Lecturer in American History, but also the location of her office, a contact email, and when she might be available for office hours. It was almost too easy.

He saw the moment she spotted him, leaning on the wall outside her office door as she arrived for the day, arms laden with reference books. He also caught the momentary flicker of panic, as she internally debated making a run for it. But it was just that, a flicker, before she sighed and kept walking.

"Killian Jones," she said flatly, balancing the books on her hip against the wall as she wrestled her keys from her jeans pocket.

"Emma Swan," he smiled. "How nice of you to remember me. I brought coffee."

She glanced down at the cup he was holding with wary eyes. "Are you a stalker?" she asked, pressing her key into the lock, and shoving the door open with her boot.

"No, I'm a journalist."

She snorted, placing her armful of books down on the nearest flat surface before turning back to him. "The difference being?"

Killian smirked. "I write about it after."

"Coffee?" he asked, holding out the cup for her to take.

For a moment she looked tempted, but her hand quickly fell back down to her side, fists clenched. "I don't accept drinks from strange men."

"Not even with cinnamon?" he asked, wiggling the cup a little in the air between them.

Emma's mouth opened, then closed. Then she reconsidered. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

"The barista. The one with the manbun? I showed him your picture and he remembered your order." He leaned over to set the cup down on her stack of books, in order to rifle through his jacket pocket. "This picture, in fact," he said, pulling out a copy of the advertisement that had started it all.

At the very sight of it, Emma seemed to shrink inwards, glancing left and right down the hallway for witnesses. Seeing none, she seized Killian by the wrist and pulled him over the threshold, slamming the door shut behind them.

"I..." he began, but she didn't let him finish, taking the cutting from him and screwing it up in her hands.

"What do you want?"

He grasped around for the right answer. "I... want to help."

"Help?" Emma gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah, sure. You just want to exploit one of the worst things that has  _ever_ happened to me. And let me tell you, that's saying something."

"I take it the ad wasn't your idea, then?"

Another bark of harsh laughter. "Not so much. My friends back home. They mean well, but they're..." By the way her words trailed off into a frustrated groan, he believed he got the idea.

"Where's home?" he asked.

Which was apparently one innocent query too far, because Emma Swan's eyes narrowed, arms coming up to cross over her chest. "Oh, you're good, Killian Jones. But I am not for consumption. So if you think you're getting some story out of this..."

"Alright," said Killian, switching tack. "So you resent the whole ordeal. By that reaction in the hallway just now, I'm going to go out on a limb and say perhaps the whole thing caused some trouble here at work?"

Another snort, which clearly meant,  _yes._

And then he spotted it, out of the corner of his eye. It looked like... a face. Emma's face. Or a facsimile of it, looking down at him where it hung suspended from the ceiling. "Is that?"

Emma sighed. "A prank. Couple of students broke in and covered the place. Or, my half, at least," she said, indicating the sparser left hand side of the room. "Not _quite_  as bad as the rollerskating flashmob to  _Why Can't We Be Friends?_ that burst into the middle of my afternoon seminar..."

Killian hadn't meant to laugh. He really, really tried not to. But honestly? Roller skates and a War anthem? The youth of today were ingenious.

"I'm sorry, lass," he said, wiping away the tears that had gathered in his eyes. By her expression, he could tell she was long past looking at the funny side. And he felt compelled to make it up to her. "Here," he offered, dragging over a chair so that he could fetch down the one thing in the room that was more offensive than himself. It didn't come unstuck easily, a slice of white paint chipping off with the tape, but the ceiling was, at least, clear. He placed the square of paper into her hand.

For a moment, she just let it sit there. And then she closed her fist around it, pressing it into a ball.

"I can help you control the narrative," Killian offered, deciding he might as well start his pitch before she threw him out.

"Is that right?" Emma asked with more than a little sarcasm, throwing the paper into the bin by her desk.

"You want people to know you're not the one behind  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend?_  That you aren't just another bloodsucking American out for her 15 minutes of fame? I can help with that. And I could, perhaps, help with the... other thing."

"Other thing?"

"Friends, Emma. This whole nightmare scenario came about because you've found it difficult fitting in here, correct? I can help with that. Help you sort the responses you've gained from your website. Or perhaps, offer suggestions as to other methods you might try..."

To give credit where credit was due, she twigged immediately. "So you can write about, right?"

"Aye," Killian admitted, wryly. "That is... the general idea."

"No."

"You don't think think it's a tale worth telling? How many others are out there right now, otherwise successful adults, struggling to find their niche? It will resonate with people. Why else do you think the campaign was so successful?"

"No."

All in all, not quite the response he'd been hoping for. Time to bring out the big guns.

"I'll pay you!" he blurted out, wincing at how desperate he sounded.

But rather than dismissing him out of hand, as he expected, the lass instead looked thoughtful. "How much?"

And therein lay the problem.  _Saorsa_  was not exactly flush with cash these days. Magazines all over were folding, and they'd mostly weathered the storm by launching online and letting Scottish expats drive their subscription base. But was no expense account to speak of. So whatever he offered would be coming directly out of his own meagre salary. A good thing Elsa had refused to accept any rent money from him, he supposed.

But what to do? To go low, and hope for the best? Or to go high, and just accept the financial hardship?.

"£100 a month," he said at last. "For a year."

"Yeah, that's really not going to cover a year's worth of public humiliation, friend. Not even close."

Which was fair enough. But it was all he had to offer.

"And if I told you the magazine I write for,  _Saorsa,_ mostly caters to the elderly and expats? No one under 60 would dare admit to reading it. And I somehow don't think it's the opinions of Scotland's retirement community that has you most concerned. Or am I wrong?"

"You could just be saying that..." Emma reasoned.

"I could, but I'm not. Trust me, it's not the most glamorous place to work. But if you did this for me, it would go a long way towards getting my brother off my back."

"Your brother?"

"My editor," Killian clarified.

"Your editor is your brother?" Emma exclaimed. "Holy nepotism, Batman!"

He gave her a wry smile, holding up his prosthetic. "I prefer to think of it as affirmative action. It's awfully hard to pull a pint one handed."

"Please don't make me into that dick that says no to the one-handed guy," Emma pleaded.

"You could always  _not_ say no?" he posited, laying on the puppy dog eyes.

"I don't like it..." Emma began.

"Think of the money," Killian encouraged. "Think of the healthy social life you've have. Think of how I will take care of everything."

She still looked doubtful. Perhaps he'd come on too strong.

"Fine!" she snapped, finally snatching up the coffee cup he'd brought and bringing it to her lips. "I'll do it. But I swear, if this thing gets out of hand? I'm out. I am not signing on for a public crucifixion!"

"No crucifixions. Roger."

"And umm... out of interest, could I get that £100 in pound coins?"


	3. Slice of Life: January

**Slice of Life**

**January 2017**

**Killian Jones**

I'm afraid that if you've come for another one of Ian McKenzie's treatises on the everyday heroism of the common man, you've arrived at the wrong place. For you see, after fifteen years of loyal service at this revered pillar of journalism, Mr McKenzie has retired to the quiet life, to tend his flock of llamas and work on his Borders accent.

We wish him well, but of course that does leave me in a bit of a pickle. How to respect his legacy, and at the same time, strike out on my own? Well, I had a few ideas about that.

Now Ian had a habit of cornering unsuspecting strangers until they gave him a quote and a photo. A tried and true approach, that, and it never did that Humans of New York lad any harm. Who doesn't love to see their friends and neighbours immortalised in print? But you see, Ian had that jolly way about him, whereas I've got a permanent five o'clock shadow and a glorified hook for a hand. It tends to make the locals skittish. Also, I fear there's far too much walking involved.

Which brings me, at last, to my pitch. What if, instead of examining life in Edinburgh through a series of people, I chose just one person? One person. One year. An in-depth look at life in the Capital, warts and all.

But which person? And how would I know it when I saw them? Well, if you read  _The Scotsman_  last Friday, you might have seen a full page ad. Hard to miss it, really. A stunning blonde staring out at you. The rather catchy hashtag  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_  emblazoned across her face? Ring any bells?

There's a website to go with it. It had a quarter of a million hits in the first twenty four hours. Ten thousand responses. Most of them drinks invitations, with a few marriage proposals thrown in for good measure. Everyone, it seemed, was up for being Emma Swan's friend.

But just who the bloody hell  _is_  Emma Swan?

So I looked her up. She's a lecturer at the University of Edinburgh. Her specialisation? American History. For she is, in fact, American.

'Nae fair!' you cry. 'She's nae a Scottish lass!' True. But indeed, neither am I. Neither is the bicycle messenger who nearly ran me over last week, or the woman who just handed me my delicious panini.

To tell the truth, this is a city of outsiders. Always has been. And no matter their reasons for sticking around, whether it be our storied institutions of higher learning, a strange affinity for Georgian architecture, or simply the chance to earn a living wage, they are still a part of the story.

It's a tale as old as time, isn't it? The intrepid new arrival, still finding their footing in a foreign land. The classic Fish Out of Water story. And who better to see your city through, than the eyes of a newcomer? Fresh eyes, still untarnished by the drudgery of the everyday. Still capable of finding something redeeming in the city you've grown to despair.

I met up for coffee with this Emma Swan. Or more accurately, I skipped ahead of the ten thousand or so other hopefuls for her attention by accidentally frequenting the same coffee shop as she does, and made a nuisance of myself until she granted me an audience.

She's just as beautiful as the advertisement suggested, and twice as ornery. The ad, it transpires, was not her idea. It was the brainchild of two particularly deviant friends of hers from back home, who thought it might give her a head start on her stalled social life.

And did it?

No such luck, I'm afraid, for Emma teaches 18 year olds. Instead it's been a hell of a week. She arrived on campus for office hours to find every surface in her office plastered with images of her own face. Even the light fixtures. Then her next class had to be cut short because it was interrupted by a flashmob of students wearing roller skates, belting out War's " _Why Can't We Be Friends?_ ".

At this point I'm sorry to say I've quite lost my journalistic composure, if I ever had any at all. And I'm forced to concede that, yes, the experiment, such as it was, seems to have backfired horribly.

Quite understandably, Emma is loathe to subject herself to further public humiliation.

But what of those ten thousand responses? I ask. Surely her predicament has struck a nerve of sorts. It's tough to make friends these days as an adult, especially in a foreign city. You've no old school chums to look up, nor family to impose on. And the internet these days seems more geared towards enabling flings and hookups, rather than building meaningful, platonic relationships.

And this, dear reader, is where we strike our devil's bargain. See, I am quite taken with this lass's tale, with the universality of her struggle, of finding one's niche. Moreover, I need a subject for this bloody column.

And so, I will help Emma Swan find a friend.

I will scour through those thousands of responses, and sort the wheat from the chaff. I will vet the candidates. I will arrange for Emma to meet the most promising choices. I will put to the ultimate test, the assertion that the Scots are a friendly people.

And then I'm going to write about it. For science. I do hope you'll join me.


	4. February

**Killian**

He could feel it, the regret, welling up in his chest, his vision blurring as he scrolled through page after page of poorly punctuated text.

14,202 responses.

14,202 people who were up for being Emma Swan's friend, and for some reason Killian Jones had appointed himself their gatekeeper.

14,202 reasons to wish he'd never even heard the name Emma Swan.

The task itself was burdensome enough, a time suck if ever there was one. But it was the sexually aggressive come ons he encountered that really propelled it towards torture. There was no other way of saying it: Men were pigs.

Barely three hundred messages in, and he was already half prepared to hand back his testicles and start writing long-winded notes of apology to every woman he'd ever met. Yes, Emma Swan was gorgeous. Yes, the  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_  campaign had made it clear there was an existing vacancy in her social life. But why hundreds of men had taken that to mean she would suddenly welcome obscene pick up lines and unsolicited dick pics was beyond him.

At least he wasn't entirely alone in this second circle of hell. It hadn't taken much inducement to get the boy to forego his cartoons in favour of helping out. The vague promise of a zoo excursion at some unspecified point in the near future, and the lad was putty in his hands. Which was how Killian found himself scouring through responses at the dining room table, with his eldest nephew, Callum, sitting opposite.

Even at eight years old, Callum was already the more steady influence of the two Jones boys, quiet and bookish, and far less prone to the feats of daring which tended to land Lachie in A&E every other month. His enthusiasm for penguins notwithstanding, history had a way of repeating itself in the most interesting of ways.

Killian had originally set the boy up to go through the pre-approved responses he'd already printed out, and asking him to choose people he felt good about. Children, Killian had found, were a bit like dogs; they were often better judges of character than most fully fledged adults. But the task must have grown wearisome at some point, because there came a small voice from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

"Uncle Killian, what's an orgasm?"

Killian snapped the lid of the laptop shut in a hurry, turning to the boy with a painted on smile. He hadn't even seen him move. "You know what, lad? Perhaps you'd be better off helping your father with dinner. You know how he likes to burn things."

As if his words had summoned him, Liam suddenly appeared in the doorway, surveying the scene with cool suspicion. "What fresh hell have you dragged my eldest into now?"

"Research," Killian replied, affecting a casual shrug. "I thought you'd be pleased. I'm ' _making an effort_ '."

"Hmmm," his brother replied, still unconvinced. "And yet, one has to wonder if the reason for this sudden work ethic has anything to do with the fact that Emma Swan looks like  _that_ ," he said, pointing to a stray copy of the original _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_  advertisement laying open on the counter, Emma's unrestrained smile spilling out from the page in a way that Killian had yet to see from her in real life.

Killian opened his mouth to protest, but it was his nephew who spoke first. "Dad," Callum interrupted, tugging at his father's sleeve. "What does orgasm mean?"

Liam's eyes widened comically, caught unawares, but it took only a moment before his gaze shifted back to his brother, his expression darkening as realisation took hold. Killian held arms aloft in an unconvincing display of innocence, but if looks could kill, he'd already be as charred as yesterday's Beef Wellington.

"Ahm, that's a question for your Mum, I think," Liam said, grabbing the boy about the shoulders and steering him out into the hallway. "In about five years or so," he added wryly, giving the boy a little push back towards the living room, and the distractions of the television.

"I can-" Killian began, as his brother turned back to glare at him.

"I really don't want to know," Liam sighed, cutting him off with a weary shake of his head. "Just clean this mess up before Elsa gets home, alright?"

He looked stressed, Killian realised, and not just about Callum's naive question. Though Liam had adopted his usual post-work uniform of loosened tie and rolled up shirtsleeves, there was little else in his posture to suggested he was at leisure. If that wasn't damning enough, his hair seemed to be sticking up more than normal, as if he'd been running his hands through it for the better part of the day. Killian was willing to bet if he got a little closer he'd even be able to see the purple vein on his brother's forehead visibly throbbing.

"Everything alright?" Killian asked, unable to mask his growing concern. "Your meeting with Ingrid?"

But if he had been expecting a confidential chat, as equals, perhaps Killian had been reading from the wrong script.

"Everything's fine," Liam snapped, with the kind of brusqueness that highly suggested otherwise. "Just get this cleared away, and stop corrupting my children. Elsa will be home any minute."

Killian was tempted to press the point, but they were both of them interrupted by the intrusive blaring of the smoke detector in the next room. Followed immediately by the tell-tale whiff of burnt rice.

"Bloody hell," Liam swore, tearing from the room. "Not again."

Killian moved instead towards the windows, welcoming the icy blast of fresh air with a shiver. It looked like takeaway was on the menu. Again.

* * *

_**How do you feel about athletic types? KJ** _

_…_

_You mean in general, or is this about your list? ES_

_**I mean, do you have a particular aversion to people whose Instagram feed consists entirely of gym selfies using the hashtag #demgains and pictures of salads? KJ** _

_I think exercise is the devil, CrossFit is a cult, and bagels are life. ES_

_**So that's a hard pass, then. Good to know. KJ** _

* * *

It was Friday night, and the streets of the Old Town appeared as they always did come the weekend, rife with roving gangs of stag parties and hen dos straight out of Chester or Newcastle, resplendent in their matching commemorative T-shirts and sashes. Killian watched them as they struggled down Victoria Street in impractical shoes, and took turns throwing up into the West Bow Well.

"Five points to kiss a man in a kilt!" one of the women slurred as he passed, having grown bold under the influence of what seemed to be one too many margaritas, by the stain down her dress. Killian settled for turning his collar up against the wind, and searching out a quiet corner from where he could check his phone.

Why she had agreed to meet him in the Grassmarket of all places, in the midst of all this calculated debauchery, puzzled him. Aye, it was populated. Aye, it was well-lit, all the better to see the tourist hordes slowly sinking into extreme inebriation. But it was hardly the right venue for getting one's measure, he thought.

But Killian wasn't one to turn down a drinks invitation from a pretty lass. Not least from the pretty lass he'd somehow roped into being a willing participant in his little sociological experiment.

So he waited. And he waited some more.

It was a quarter past the hour when he finally spotted her, long red curls billowing behind her as she hurried up from Candlemaker Row wrapped in a fluffy green coat, three young men following in her wake.

"Killian Jones?" she asked, approaching him warily.

"Aye," he said, stepping forward to shake her hand. "Glad you could make it."

Merida, as he planned to name her in his article, was what Killian might call Proper Scottish. She had the red hair. The clan name. The distinctive burr that seemed to come right out of some remote Highland glen. She was the living, breathing stereotype of a milk-fed country lassie, and he could think of no more qualified candidate to introduce Emma to the wonders of Scottish hospitality. If for no other reason than she was the only one on his shortlist who'd actually responded to his email.

The trio that trailed after her were her brothers, as it transpired, rather than her bodyguards. Though it would be easy enough to make that mistake, what with each giving Killian a bruising handshake and some whispered threat or other over the course of one too many drinks at the Beehive Inn. Drinks Killian was apparently expected to pay for.

"You shouldn't encourage 'em," she chided over her barely touched pint of Guinness. "They'll take advantage."

_Too late for that._

"So what brought you to Edinburgh, lass?" Killian ventured, figuring they'd wasted enough time making idle chitchat.

"A job," she shrugged. "There's no' exactly a lo' of work goin' back in Dun Broch."

A familiar enough tale. As pretty as the Highlands were, there wasn't much in the way of industry these days unless you were willing to waste your life away behind a counter, selling keyrings and commemorative shot glasses to passing tourists. Young people tended to get out early, and stay gone.

"And your brothers followed you?" he asked. "Must be nice, having family close by."

The lass snorted, her Guinness threatening to spill out of her nose. "Sorry," she said, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Do you have any brothers?"

"Two."

"The' you ken. You love 'em, but the' can also be…"

"A lot to manage," Killian finished for her.

"Exactly," Merida smiled. "So wha's she like, then? Emma?" Merida asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Killian leaned back in his chair, considering the question properly. Aye, he'd already described her to his readers, but even then he'd felt his descriptions had been lacking, a poorly drawn caricature of who Emma Swan really was.

"She's complicated," Killian admitted. "Quick-witted. Stubborn. Strong. A rather developed sense of irony for an American."

"Nice?" Merida ventured, her uncertainty showing.

"Perhaps. With time. She's funny. Even without meaning to be. But I'm not going to lie to you, lass, she isn't the easiest person to get to know. At first she's a little brisk. Prickly, even. I get the impression she's been let down before, because she tends to automatically assume the worst of people, rather than wait around to be disappointed."

He knew he'd said too much when Merida leaned back in her chair, gaze subtly shifting over to the bar where her brothers stood, unsuccessfully trying to chat up a cohort of young women in matching pink tiaras and feather boas.

"I'm not doing a very good job at selling this, am I?" Killian said with a groan.

"You coul' be doin' better," she offered.

And yet, in that moment, he saw it. The flash of familiarity. Perhaps he wasn't entirely crazy for thinking these two might hit it off.

"Look, Emma doesn't make friends easily. That much is blatantly clear. But the ones she has made? It's clear they mean the world to her. And she to them. After all, they were the ones to instigate all of this, simply because they couldn't stand the thought of her being lonely out here."

"If my friends did tha' to me…" Merida shuddered.

"Agreed. But I'd like to think it takes a special kind of person to inspire that level of stupidity in others."

"Like decidin' to write abou' an American lassie finding friends for a whole year?"

"Like that," Killian conceded, with a smile.

"So you mus' think she's worth the effort, then?"

That pulled him up short. "I think…" he said, best trying to arrange his thoughts. " I think Emma deserves a real chance at happiness here. As much as anyone. And if my column can help with that, then all the better. So tell me, what made you respond to Emma's ad in the first place?"

* * *

_**I think I found a promising candidate for you. KJ** _

_Oh? ES_

_**Aye. I think you have plenty in common. Are you free tonight to discuss? KJ** _

_It's Valentine's Day. ES_

**…**

_**You have alternate plans? KJ** _

_Of course not. But don't you? ES_

_**After a fashion. But you're more than welcome to join. KJ** _

_If that is a poncy British way of initiating a ménage à trois… ES_

_**I'm babysitting. My brother is the one with the Valentine's plans. With his wife. I, on the other hand, am on nephew-wrangling duty, because apparently children can be a real mood killer. But as I said, you are welcome to come by. We're making tacos. KJ** _

_Yeah, I'm not good with kids. ES._

_**Me neither. And yet, somehow, the little cretins haven't died on my watch yet. KJ** _

_I don't know… ES_

_**Aren't you curious who your new best friend is going to be? KJ** _

_Not the gym bunny? ES_

_**Perish the thought. KJ** _

_And there will be tacos? ES_

_**There will indeed be tacos. KJ** _

_Hard shell or soft? ES_

_**Both. KJ** _

_Well played, Jones. ES_

_**See you at 7 then, Swan? KJ** _

* * *

For only the twentieth time that day, Killian Jones wondered where exactly he got all of his bright ideas from.

Aye, he needed to convince Emma to give a meeting with Merida a shot. And he needed to extract some sliver of personal information out of her. He couldn't hope to sustain his column with his witticisms forever. At some point, Emma had to step forward and become a character in her own right, if he had any hope of appealing to his subscription base. And to do that, he had to get to know her.

So he  _did_  need to see her. And he  _was_  going out of town for a few days, so there wasn't a lot of flexibility in his schedule. But inviting her to help babysit his nephews?  _What had he been thinking?_

It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not least because it required the permission of at least one of their parents. Neither of which was looking like an attractive option, considering the amount of grief he was likely to get over it.

He still hadn't made his mind up which one to approach when his decision was made for him, his sister-in-law calling his name from down the hall.

"Killian?"

Well, at least she was the more sympathetic of the two.

"You beckoned?" he asked, popping his head around the door frame.

Elsa stood in front of a full length mirror, fretting with the sleeve of her pale blue dress. As per usual, she looked ethereally lovely, a state which was at odds with the frown she wore in her reflection.

Killian whistled in appreciation. "You do realise it's not too late? You could always ditch Liam and run off with the younger, more dashing brother?" he offered sardonically.

She turned to him, her eye roll still managing to be affectionate somehow. "Thank you, I think. Can you zip me up?" She asked, gesturing to the back of her dress.

"As the lady insists," he said with an exaggerated bow, stepping closer to assess the task at hand. When he went out he tended to wear his prosthetic, but at home he often went without, switching it over for the more versatile, but slightly more discomfiting hook. The last thing Elsa needed was for him to tear a hole right through her shiny new dress.

"I appreciate this, you know," Elsa said suddenly, startling Killian as he reached out to take the zipper. "You taking care of the boys. I know there are probably other things you'd rather be doing. It's just, I know Liam's been stressing himself out with Ingrid in town. I want him to have fun tonight. Let it go for a few hours."

"I'm happy to help," Killian replied, pulling the zip up the rest of the way. And then sensing he wasn't going to get any better opening than that, he ripped off that plaster. "Having said that, perhaps there is something you can do for me?"

"Oh?" she asked, turning around to face him with an amused smile curving her lips.

"Do you remember Emma?"

"Emma?" she repeated, her eyebrows furrowing together. "You mean  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_ , Emma?"

"Aye," Killian said, reaching up to scratch behind one ear. "I've been meaning to touch base with her, but I'm off to Glasgow tomorrow for the film festival. I was sort of hoping I could invite her here."

She looked puzzled by his request. "This is your house too, Killian. You know you don't need my permission to invite someone over."

Killian took a deep breath. "Only, I might have mentioned I was babysitting tonight, and invited her to eat with me and the boys?"

"You invited her to babysit with you?" Elsa clarified, in such a way he couldn't be sure of her feelings on the matter.

"If you're not comfortable with that-" Killian began.

"Just to be clear," Elsa interrupted him. "You invited Emma Swan, the woman you agreed to write about all this year, home to eat tacos and watch Pixar movies with you and my sons. On Valentine's Day?"

This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "Bloody hell, Elsa. It's not a date."

"But it's not exactly work either, is it?"

"It's a… it's a friendly gesture," Killian admitted. "But you don't understand. Emma is... she's guarded, alright? If I want people to really connect with her, if I want her story to truly resonate, then I need to know a little more about her. And there's no way she'll ever be comfortable enough to give me that, unless I'm prepared to do the same."

"So this is a case of  _'I show you mine, you show me yours'_?" Elsa asked, her tone still far too amused for Killian's liking.

"You make it sound crass, love."

"No, I think I understand. I do," she emphasised, when Killian shot her a look. "It shows you've really thought about it. About how you're going to sustain that relationship over the year. It's kind of impressive, actually."

"So you're okay with her coming by?" Killian clarified.

"Of course. I trust you to do the right thing."

"Thank you, love," he said, releasing a long held breath and leaning forward to brush a brotherly kiss to her temple. "I appreciate that."

"But Killian?" she said, stopping him dead in the doorway before he could make himself scarce. "It's okay if you just want to get to know her for the sake of it, you know?"

He paused for a moment, biting back a retort. "Have fun tonight, Elsa. And keep my brother out of trouble," he said, before leaving to her to get ready alone.

* * *

**Emma**

Okay, so Killian Jones was rich.

When Google Maps had led her directly in front of a two storey Victorian in Merchiston, with honest-to-god ivy growing on the walls, Emma figured she had the wrong address. But after double-checking Killian's text, she couldn't see how she could've screwed up.

And as she walked down the paved drive, the impressive facade of the house looming over her, she wondered if she really had Killian Jones quite as figured out as she thought she did.

The entranceway was ridiculous. A church's worth of stained glass framing an imposing black door, a solid brass knocker in the center. Feeling a little bit foolish, she lifted the handle, bringing it down three times.

_Why couldn't they just have a doorbell?_

She heard a shuffle of movement from inside, and then Killian Jones appeared in front of her. He was minus the leather jacket she had come to expect from him. A waistcoat, it turned out, was what lay underneath, and he managed to make it work. His prosthetic, she noticed, had been replaced with some kind of metal attachment. But not wishing for him to catch her staring, she instead drew her eyes to her immediate surroundings.

"You neglected to mention you were loaded," Emma said, by way of greeting, stepping past him into the front hall and out of the cold. "This house is…" she trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Opulent?" Killian suggested, closing the door after her. "And I'm not loaded." Killian added with a smirk, taking her jacket from her. "My sister-in-law however… Let's just say, if anyone is the reacher in that relationship, it's my brother."

"Your brother, the editor?"

"That's the one. So," he said, rubbing his hands together, so much as he could. "Ready to meet the gremlins?"

"When you put it like that…" She grimaced, but allowed herself to be led down the hallway anyway, emboldened by the promise of tacos.

The living room itself was like something right out of a furniture catalogue, and not one from IKEA, either. The furniture all matched, the art on the walls was tasteful and there was a real marble fireplace, with an actual fire burning in the grate. The whole tableau wouldn't have looked out of place in a Burt Reynolds photoshoot, if it weren't for the two small boys clad in superhero pajamas sat around a small coffee table, fit to bursting with taco fixings.

They looked up as they entered, tiny faces lit with excitement and smeared with excess salsa.

"Lachie, Callum," Killian said, pointing to each boy in turn. "This is Emma. She's a friend from work. I've invited her to eat with us. And you're going to be on your very best behaviour for our guest, aye?"

Both boys nodded solemnly, before the oldest emitted a sudden and overloud burp, the two of them bursting into peals of laughter.

_Ah, children._

"Hi," Emma said, her opening gambit as pathetic as her wave. "Thanks for letting me join you."

"They won't bite, Swan," Killian whispered from her side, suddenly much closer than she remembered. "Well, Lachie might. But you've had all your jabs, correct?"

And then before she could figure out if he was kidding or not, he pushed her into the open space beside the youngest, the aforementioned Lachie. Who may or may not bite.

"Hi," she said again, settling down on a cushion beside him. "Would you be able to pass me a plate?"

"You talk funny," the boy said, reaching over the extract a plastic plate from the stack piled high on the table.

Killian shot the boy a sharp look, but Emma waved him off. "Yeah, that's because I'm from America. Do you know where that is?"

"That's where Aunty Anna lives," came the voice of the eldest, Callum, from the other side of the table. "She lives in New York City with Uncle Kristoff. And they have a dog. His name is Sven and he's a Norwegian Elkhound. Uncle Kristoff says he can talk, but only to him. Aunty Anna thinks Uncle Kristoff is very silly."

The kid was clearly precocious, but not such a big fan of pausing between his sentences, making the entire spiel seem like one long run-on sentence.

"Oh," said Emma, not expecting this wealth of new information. "And have you ever gone to visit Aunty Anna?"

"We were in her wedding," Callum continued. "It was my job to carry the flowers. And I started sneezing all the time. Mummy said it was hayfever. And I remember the penguins at the zoo. And the big buildings. And the park. I remember, but Lachie was just a baby, so he doesn't remember it at all."

"I do so!" came the vehement reply of his younger brother, unhappy with being left out of the narrative.

"Do not!"

"Do so!"

"Boys!" Killian cried, causing both of them to abandon their mounting argument. "Remember what I said about best behaviour?"

The two boys fell into a sullen silence, but Killian on the other hand, merely looked amused. "Cheer up, lass," he said, as he leaned forward to snag a bowl of chopped tomatoes out from under her nose. "What would you rather be doing with your evening? Watching Netflix?"

* * *

Okay, so the tacos were pretty good. And when they weren't getting into arguments over inane details, the two Jones boys were kind of cute. Sort of. Emma wasn't really a kids person. Even when she  _was_  a kid, she hadn't been a big fan.

Fortunately, bedtime came around soon enough, Killian disappearing upstairs to tuck them in while Emma did a great job of pretending she wasn't snooping. It wasn't snooping if they had the pictures on display in the common areas, right?

Emma didn't recognize the couple in the wedding photo that took pride of place on the mantelpiece, but she recognized the best man easily enough. Killian Jones. He'd been younger then, his hair longer and shaggier, but it was undeniably him. Mugging for the camera with his arm around his brother's shoulders. One hand clutching a beer bottle, the other holding a bunch of flowers. Two hands. Not a prosthetic, back then.

So the missing hand hadn't always been missing, then. And it was a fairly recent development. She heard footsteps on the stairs and she turned away from the photograph, pretending to admire the Jones' not inconsiderable record collection. John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters seemed to come up a lot. She idly wondered if they belonged to the brother, or his wife. Or if it was an interest they both shared.

"Warm beverage?" came a voice near her elbow, startling her out of her thoughts.

"I think we should get you a collar with a bell on it," Emma said, clutching her chest, turning around to find Killian already holding out a mug, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You didn't think two hot chocolates were enough already?" Emma asked, taking the cup from his hand.

"Third time's the charm," he shrugged. "Also I spiked this one."

Emma, who already had her mug halfway to her lips took an experimental sip, causing her to cough out loud. "Wow," she said with a little laugh, lowering the mug. "Yeah, you did. Do I look that terrified?" She asked, moving to take a seat on the designer looking couch. She was almost afraid to bring her mug with her, in case she spilled something on it.

"Only a little," Killian said, taking a seat on the opposite end, clutching a beverage of his own. How exactly he'd managed to carry both in from the kitchen in one trip, Emma couldn't say. "You put up a good front. Kids can smell fear, but I think you had them fooled."

"But not you, huh?" Emma said, curling her feet underneath her.

"Well, I'm quite perceptive lass," he said, with a smirk.

"And modest, too," Emma remarked, earning a chuckle in response.

"You're good with them," she said suddenly. "Your nephews, I mean. You seem really close. Do you babysit a lot?"

"Well…" This smile faltered a little, and Emma wondered if she'd made an accidental faux pas. Had she misread the situation? "Actually," he began again, looking visibly uncomfortable. "The truth is that I live here. In the guest room. It was supposed to be a temporary situation, but I suppose we're now entering the stage where it's hard to kid myself on that score any longer. So at this point I think they just consider me part of the furniture."

He seemed almost ashamed somehow. As if there was something wrong with wanting to live in a beautiful house, surrounded by your own flesh and blood.

"Neighborhood too bourgeois for you?" Emma asked, before she could stop herself.

She was rewarded with another laugh, the furrow between his brows disappearing. "Well, there is that," he smiled. "I don't know. Don't get me wrong, I realise this is a palace. Compared to the places my brother and I grew up?" He shook his head. "I suppose I just miss the independence. Miss having my brother's disapproving looks at more than an arm's length."

"It must be hard," Emma mused. "Your boss being your brother. Your brother being your boss."

"I think bossing me around comes quite naturally to him, actually. Only, I'm not quite as good at taking orders as I used to be. Sometimes for so large a house it can be suffocatingly small."

It wasn't really a confession you could build on. Emma didn't have any sibling stories to share, and she doubted he wanted to hear about her crappy childhood anyway. She settled for taking another sip from her mug, letting the amaretto warm her from the inside out.

"You're not really one for sharing, are you?" Killian noted, regarding her with more scrutiny than she was really comfortable with.

"Don't have much to share," Emma shrugged.

"I doubt that very much. You seem like many things, Emma Swan. But boring? I doubt it. Take this, for instance. How does a lass like you end up on the wrong side of the Atlantic anyhow, teaching American history to a bunch of kids who couldn't quite scrape into Cambridge?"

"I applied?"

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "No one leaves all their friends and family behind and starts a new life three thousand miles away without a reason. So what was it? Bad break-up?"

"No." Walsh's face flashed in her mind for an instant. "Well, yes. But no, I mean, that's not why I came here."

He looked unconvinced. "No?"

"No."

"Then might I inquire…?"

"So you can write it all down in your little article? I don't think so, Buddy."

"Off the record, then," he said, pushing his phone across the table towards her in a show of good faith. "Why Scotland? Why now? And I swear, if you say anything about Outlander, we're done here."

She poked her tongue out at him for that. Sure, Jamie Fraser was one fine slice of Highland prime beef, but he hadn't really figured much into her decision. Her own decision hadn't been half so simple. But hell, he'd asked for it, right?

"The break-up wasn't the reason, exactly. But it made it easier. Less to leave, I guess. And then I lost my job. Voluntary redundancy, or whatever. But at least I got a payout. And my friends, well they've all got their own stuff going on. Mary Margaret's trying for a baby. Ruby and Victor are moving in together. August has his book. And I had this money, burning a hole in my pocket. I guess I figured I had nothing to lose."

"You do realise this is the most you've ever spoken about yourself since I met you?" Killian pointed out, setting his mug down on the coffee table.

"And you say you do this for a living?" Emma asked in disbelief.

"Well, I think I also implied I'm a bit of a problem employee. So I'm guessing you were the dumper, rather than the dumpee?"

"What, with Walsh? Why would you assume that?" Emma asked, feeling her hackles raise.

"Well, you're something of an open book, lass. For one thing, you don't seem all that cut up about it. And for another, I think if you were properly distraught you would have sought out the company of your friends, rather than choosing to isolate yourself in some far off place."

He was right, damn him. Why did he have to be right?

"Fine. I'm the one who broke it off, happy? He proposed, and instead of saying yes, like a normal person, I decided I'd rather break his heart into little itty bitty pieces."

"You were in love with him?"

What was with the men in her life, and their fixation with Emma's feelings about Walsh?

"Sure, I guess. He's a good guy. We just weren't… endgame."

"Hmmm," said Killian thoughtfully.

"What?" Emma asked, wondering if she was really ready for another one of his theories.

"He didn't really get it, did he? The orphan thing?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "How the  _fuck_  did you know that?"

"Well I didn't, for sure. But I suspected. I've been around my share of orphans. There's a certain look, when you've been left on your own too long. And you, Swan, have the look."

Emma knew the look he meant. One part neglect to two parts chip on one's shoulder. It never entirely left you, no matter how many birthdays you had, or paychecks you cashed. An orphan was always an orphan.

"You're one to talk. Your brother raised you, didn't he?" Emma hadn't needed to meet Liam Jones to realize why he loomed so large in his brother's imagination. Not a case of sibling rivalry at all, but a lingering fear of not living up to his brother's expectations.

"He did," Killian confirmed. "But our father isn't dead. He just left, not too long after our mother passed. He turned up about ten years ago, out of the blue with a whole new family. A brother we never even knew existed."

"Ouch."

"Liam didn't take it very well. Not that I can blame him. They're still not on speaking terms."

"And you?"

"It's not our brother's fault his father is a coward. He's in his first year of university now, down in Exeter. We email sometimes. I can't quite bring myself to write to my father. I doubt anything I wanted to say could be expressed via email anyway."

For a man who might have been just about one of the most articulate people Emma had ever met, that might've been hard to swallow. But she thought she understood what he meant. Sometimes it wasn't about words. But sometimes they were all you had.

"I'm from Maine, originally," Emma blurted out. "You asked me once. That's where I was found on the side of the road, as a baby." She didn't want to play this game. This  _'whose childhood was worse'_  game. But she felt compelled to give him something. "So, you were right about me. I grew up bouncing from foster home to foster home until I aged out of the system. Had a near-miss with the law and decided I didn't want to be a statistic. So I got my GED, applied to a bunch of colleges and took out a mountain of student loans. Somehow I ended up back in a small town in Maine about fifty miles from where I started, studying history, and I liked it there, so I stayed for a while. And now I'm here?"

"Here you are," Killian said, raising his mug to clink against her own. "Nice to meet you at last, Emma Swan," he said, piercing blue eyes meeting hers.

It would have been easy to lower her gaze, but she didn't, even as she drained the last of her cup. "Likewise, Killian Jones."

"So," Emma said, fingers tracing the rim of her empty mug. "You mentioned you found me a new best friend?"

* * *

Her name was Merida.

Or at least, that was what Killian was going to call her in his column. Anonymity apparently only an option for people who hadn't already had their real name splashed all over the internet.

"I can't decide if you're going to get along like a house on fire, or try to kill each other," he'd said, as if that was in any way a solid recommendation.

And then he'd suggested archery, of all activities. Because this Merida was apparently something of an expert. At archery.

"You really think it's wise sending me out into the hinterland with a complete stranger, armed with deadly weapons?" Emma had asked.

"You'll have deadly weapons too, Swan," he reminded her, in an overly cheerful way. As if that made it any better. It's wasn't like she knew how to use them.

The archery range was a long cab ride out of the city, set among farmland dotted with harassed looking cows and unsightly power lines. And just as Killian had promised, there was a young woman waiting by the front gate, immediately recognizable by her tangle of red curls.

"You're Emma?" the girl asked with a sideways smile, stepping forward to shake Emma's hand.

"I am," she said, grasping her hand in a firm handshake. "And I guess you're the person who was crazy enough to answer Killian's email?"

"Aye. Seems like. You ever shoot an arrow before, Emma?" Her accent was astronomical. Emma liked to think she had grown accustomed to the soft burr of the natives, but this was something else altogether.

"Uh, no. A friend of mine, um... back home. She went through an archery phase in college. I was much more into the spectating side of things."

"Well, there's no time like th' present," the girl said, leading the way to what seemed to be a storage shed.

"You're not worried it might rain?" Emma called out, pointing out the gunmetal grey of the clouds that were fast gathering on the horizon.

The girl shrugged, not even bothering to turn around. "It'll pass. Weather changes fast here."

With that apparently cleared up, Emma had no choice but to follow after her.

* * *

The weather  _did_  change fast. One minute Emma was being lectured to about her terrible stance in relative sunshine, the next the rain was coming in sideways.

Merida, on the other hand, seemed unconcerned, still focused intently on her target.

"This doesn't bother you?" Emma called, having to shout to make herself heard over the roar of the tempest beating down on them.

"It's Scotland!" the girl shouted back in answer, not moving a millimeter.

"It's freezing!"

Apparently having realized the shine had rather worn off for Emma, the girl gave a huff of annoyance, and let her bow drop back to her side. It was only when she turned around and saw Emma huddled there, shivering, that her face softened a little.

"Alrigh' fine," she said, holding her hands up in defeat. "We'll getcha warmed up."

They ended up taking refuge in Merida's car, a battered green Ford probably about as old as Merida herself. Emma felt a momentary pang of longing for her own ancient Volkswagen, probably still sitting under a dusty tarp in Mary Margaret's garage.

Emma wouldn't have minded a bit of heating to help with the whole drying process, but Merida never moved to switch on the ignition, and she felt she should be grateful she'd even gotten this far. Instead they sat in awkward silence, watching the first flurries of snow begin to fall.

"It'll pass?" Emma repeated. She couldn't help it.

Merida didn't say a fucking word.

* * *

_**So? KJ** _

_**How'd it go? KJ** _

_**...** _

_**Swan? KJ** _

_**Emma? Are you alright? KJ** _

_**Emma, answer your bloody phone! KJ** _

_I have a class. I'll call you later. ES_

**_Are you alright, lass? KJ_ **

_I'll tell you later. ES_

* * *

There was that sliver of a moment, right after someone picked up the phone. That tiny breath of silence, when your heart leapt into your throat, and your nerve endings were shot. Where anticipation and fear started duking it out in your lower belly.

Emma wanted to live in that moment forever. Anything to delay the inevitable. But that was the thing about time. It didn't care what you wanted.

"Emma?" She sounded breathless, like she'd been running to grab the phone.

"Mary Margaret?" Emma said, not quite managing to keep the wobble out of her voice.

"Sweetie?"

That was all it took. One word. The confirmation that someone, somewhere, out there, gave a shit. She felt the tears gathering even before she spoke. "You were right. I'm not okay."


	5. Slice of Life: February

**Slice of Life**

**February 2017**

**Killian Jones**

Hearty salutations. It's another typically freezing February day in yon Empress of the North, and I'm already on my third coffee of the morning, so let's dive right in.

Contrary to expectations, you did not all rise up as one and demand the immediate reinstatement of Ian McKenzie on this column. In fact, barring one mostly unintelligible Facebook comment I received from a Trump supporter from Novosibirsk, the response was universally positive. So, thank you, my job is secure for another month. So, let's recap, shall we?

If you'll recall, last month I made a considered, and not-at-all hasty promise to  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_. And who was Emma Swan, again? Why that was the American lass who'd been the victim of some well-meaning friends back home. The ones who, with the help of their catchy hashtag, managed to catapult her from anonymous lecturer to overnight internet sensation.

Altogether, not the easiest transition.

And this is about where I entered the story, intrigued by the universal themes at work here. Making friends as an adult is hard. Making them after you've had your picture splashed all over  _The Scotsman_  and social media is harder.

So I'm lending a hand. Just the one, mind. I'm going to assist in sorting out Emma Swan's social life, and in return, I get to keep you all abreast of the developments.

But first, a little about Emma herself. You might know the basics already. 28. Blonde. History buff. Highly caffeinated, and highly combative. I mean that in the nicest possible way. She's cagey when we talk about her upbringing, back in the States. It takes three hot beverages until she finally reveals Maine as her home state. "Originally," she says cryptically, before trailing off. And one she later returned to, for college.

Somewhere she was living rather happily, by all accounts, surrounded by a network of close friends until last year. But that's the thing about growing older, isn't it? One by one, your friends start to pair off, and settle down. They take on promotions, and responsibilities, and before you know it, the latest episode of Game of Thrones is out, and there's no one you can call to wipe your tears away afterwards.

I'm dramatising at this point, but you understand the sentiment, I'm sure. Emma Swan was the last woman standing, of sorts, within her social circle. It happens to the best of us. And so she did what so many of us do when we find ourselves at a loose end. She held her breath and took a leap. One that landed her, however indirectly, right into your lives.

And in turn, into mine.

The website that started all of this garnered 14,202 responses before Emma found a way to take it down.

14,202 offers to be her friend, give or take the thousand or so trolls. Not to mention the frankly alarming amount of unsolicited pornography much of the male population seem to mistake for a suitable way to introduce oneself to an attractive woman on the internet. How pleased I am, that I agreed to be the one to scour through this little mass of humanity in search of potential friends for Emma. For future reference; keep it zipped, lads.

Here's some arithmetic for you. Supposing I were to spend, say, thirty seconds scanning each response, that's 7,101 minutes. Divide that into hours? 118.35 hours, or over 4 hours each day for this entire month. Supposing I wanted to read them all.

I'm committed to this project, but it turns out I'm not quite  _that_  committed.

So I did what any well-meaning, but fundamentally lazy person in my position would do. I read the first hundred or so, and made my first selection from that. So after some emailing back and forth, and the lass's gracious agreement to be part of this social experiment of sorts, we have our first candidate. Let's call her Merida.

Originally hailing from a wee village in the rain-sodden heart of the Highlands, Merida now calls the capital home, sharing a flat in Marchmont with a trio of younger brothers. And though having close family nearby is some consolation, she too has struggled to make outside connections since her move South, especially with women her own age.

So naturally, I brought these two crazy kids together.

The outing? An afternoon at an archery range just outside the city. Because nothing says potential female friendship like bonding over the use of deadly weapons.

At least, that was the theory.

Alas, the Scottish weather decided to intervene. The forecast may have been for fine conditions, but I think we all know there was some element of risk. Cue the torrential downpour about half an hour in, followed shortly thereafter by a light smattering of snow, just to really cap things off.

Simply put: the outing was cut short, and no one got a rose.

The truth is, they are quite similar people in many ways. I recognised it immediately. Both strong, and smart. Clearly used to smashing expectations at every turn. Dare I say, a touch of stubbornness. In other circumstances it might have drawn them together, but I fear in this particular instance, beset by all of nature's fury, it merely served to highlight the other's sharper edges.

I agreed I wouldn't force it. They can work things out themselves, if they wish. But it was hardly the rousing success I was hoping for.

So, it is back to the drawing board for me, I'm afraid. Perhaps another survey of our potentials is due, after a generous dose of rum. Anything in service of  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend._


	6. March

**_Emma_ **

One thing you could say about Emma, she knew how to hold a grudge. She knew how to hold them close, how to nurture and how feed them until they grew up big and strong, and there were no shortage of people on her shit list. For instance, to this day if a certain person with the initials N.C. ever came waltzing back into her life, even a decade after the fact, she was pretty sure she still had enough latent rage bottled up to cause serious bodily harm.

Forgiveness had never really been her thing.

And yet…

She could play the strong and silent type all she liked, but the truth was, life was better with friends. Even when they had been an ocean away, her life had still been a flurry of group texts and Skype dates, of close confidences and harmless gossip. And national laughing stock or no national laughing stock, she missed it. She missed  _them._

She was almost surprised by the intensity of it, as it rose up inside her. That unfamiliar longing, the one she'd thought she'd long buried along with the rest of it. But as she sat in that unheated sedan, watching the landscape disappear beneath a blanket of fresh snow with a virtual stranger, she couldn't see the point in pretending anymore.

Emma Swan was not an island.

So yes, she'd forgiven them.  _Conditionally_. There would be atonement, of course. Apologies, and care packages and promises to never, ever,  _ever,_ fucking do something like that again. And it felt like a good thing, like a salve to her wounded pride. Like the grown up thing to do.

That is, until Ruby started stalking Killian Jones on Facebook.

"You didn't mention he was hot."

"Who?" Emma asked absently, still trying to get herself situated in front of her laptop screen without spilling her cocoa or her bowl of popcorn.

"Your writer guy. Killian?"

Emma almost spat out her mouthful of cocoa, mental alarm bells ringing. "Rubes…"

"Chill," the brunette advised. "Take a yoga breath. Yes, okay, I looked the guy up. Of course I did. I wanted to make sure he wasn't an axe murderer. But, wow, you have been  _really_  holding out on us."

"He's not… It's a professional relationship, Ruby. Don't make it weird."

Or professional enough. Not that any other of Emma's professional relationships involved watching Pixar movies with nephews, or frank admissions of orphanhood, but hell, what did she know about journalism? Maybe that was standard.

"So you mean you  _haven't_  noticed he's sex on legs?" Ruby pressed, her tongue peeking mischievously out of the corner of her mouth.

Okay, so Emma had noticed. It was kinda hard  _not_ to notice, especially when he insisted on wearing such tight jeans all the time, and button downs with the sleeves rolled up to expose criminally toned forearms. She didn't even want to get into the scruff situation. Or that smirk. Whatever else the man might be, he was not modest about his looks.

"Please don't objectify him. Trust me, he doesn't need the ego boost. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he already has like a harem of casual conquests for that."

"Wow," Ruby said, folding her hand under her chin thoughtfully. "That sounded almost catty. Are we perhaps a little jealous of Killian Jones's harem?"

"I'm not jealous. I have…" Okay, so Emma's love life comprised entirely of streaming Sex in the City episodes ad nauseum whilst snuggled inside her hideously unfashionable, but unquestionably warm Portland Pirates pyjamas. But that was fine, she was still fresh from the whole Walsh debacle. It wasn't like she couldn't go out and find a guy, if she wanted one. "...Other concerns," she finished lamely.

"Right," Ruby said, sounding wholly less than convinced. "So you mean you don't want to see the guy's embarrassing high school pictures then? Because I have hit the motherlode. We're talking ponytail.  _Grunge phase_."

Emma groaned. "Please tell me you didn't Friend Request him."

A sheepish grin crossed her friend's features. "I plead the fifth?"

"God dammit, Ruby." The last thing she needed was Killian Jones getting yet more dirt on her. He already knew  _way_ too much as it was. And Ruby was second only to Mary Margaret in the blabbermouth stakes. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

There was a pause. "There's a fang earring."

"You're kidding."  _The gods couldn't be that kind._

"I'm really not."

Ruby looked like the cat that got the canary, and rightfully so. Maybe Emma had this whole thing backwards. Maybe it wasn't about how many of her secrets Killian could extort from her and her friends. Maybe it was about how many she could extract from  _him._

"I love you."

"I know."

* * *

_**Your friend Ruby added me on Facebook. Friendly lass. Very chatty. KJ** _

_I know. Nice ponytail, by the way. ES_

…

_**I knew I should have deleted those. KJ** _

_I'm so glad you didn't. ES_

_**I bet you are. Well, laugh it up, lass. Ruby's albums aren't entirely devoid of compromising pictures either. The one titled Spring Break '10 has been especially… revealing. KJ** _

_Oh god. I forgot about that. Brb. Changing my privacy settings. ES_

_**A little late for that, lass. If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me. KJ** _

_Truce? ES_

_**Truce. KJ** _

* * *

On her best days, Emma could pack out a lecture hall with nearly 200 warm bodies, but come Friday afternoon the numbers tended to dwindle as most of her students made an early start on their weekends. A good thing too or else she might not have noticed him there, seated in the back row, whilst she was mid-way into comparing the war of 1812 to its more modern counterparts.

She stuttered to a stop, put off by the sight of him, hand on his chin and apparently listening intently.

"One.. uh…" She shot him a glare as she fought to remember what she was saying.

"One might be tempted to draw parallels here, of course. The kind of hubris that led Thomas Jefferson to state that conquering Canada would be 'a mere matter of marching' is hardly unique to American foreign policy. Think about it: Vietnam. Afghanistan. Iraq. All intended to be swift, decisive victories that were anything but. I know this is history, kids, but don't be afraid to make connections. It's true what they say: 'What has happened before will happen again. What has been done before will be done again. There is nothing new in the whole world.' If I want you to take anything away from this course, it's this: People don't really change. Politics have always held an attraction for the arrogant and the short-sighted.  _Especially_  in the United States."

As she waited for the laughter to die down, she glanced up at the clock above the whiteboard to see her hour fast drawing to a close. "And now that I've disparaged my country for your amusement, a reminder that next Thursday your argumentative essays are due. Was the War of 1812 just a footnote in the greater Napoleonic Wars, or was it a defining moment of a young and fragile nation? You decide. Either way, I want to be convinced!"

Killian waited for the last of the students to shuffle out before he approached Emma at her podium, still gathering up the last of her leftover handouts. His hands, the real and the plastic, were in his pockets, a grin stretching over his lips.

"You quoted Ecclesiastes," he said by way of greeting, unable to completely keep the surprise from his voice.

Emma shrugged, trying to keep her attention on packing away her supplies and not Killian Jones's opinion of her teaching methods. "It's been known to happen."

"Isn't that a conflict of interest? Mixing scripture and history? In my experience, the two don't tend to mesh well."

Emma paused in her motions to raise an eyebrow. "Awfully philosophical today, aren't we?"

He spread his arms, indicating the lecture hall they stood in. It was one of the university's oldest, each row back even steeper than the one before it, which sometimes culminated in Emma feeling like she was performing live at Red Rocks. But she liked it, musty as it was, the wooden desks engraved with literally centuries worth of graffiti from bored college students. It had  _character_. "Seems like an appropriate venue for philosophizing, don't you think?"

"C'mon, Aristotle," she said, pulling him towards the door by his sleeve. "You can buy me a drink."

They didn't go far, settling in the back of the closest Mexican restaurant to Emma's office, two bottles of Corona sat on the table between them, a wedge of lime sticking out of each.

"So…" Emma started, absently picking at the label of her bottle. "Was there a reason for your visit, or was this just a standard evaluation of my teaching methods?"

"Eh, no. Not exactly, lass," Killian admitted, reaching up to scratch behind his ear. "Actually I was hoping to run something by you."

He was nervous. Emma could tell. And that made Emma nervous. In her experience, if someone was afraid to ask something of her, it was usually because she wasn't going to like it. Not. One. Bit.

"Oh, really?"

"I wanted to change the format of our little…" He made a vague gesture in the air, "...agreement."

Emma was wary. "Change it… how?"

"Well," he began, pulling himself up straighter in his chair. "For one thing, if I have to read another one of those responses from your website, I will actually gauge out my own eyeballs. They're creeps, Swan. Sociopaths. Perverts. People who still live with their parents. You can do better."

She wasn't sure whether she should be flattered, or horrified. "O...kay. So, what's the game plan?"

"Just, hear me out alright? I've given this rather a lot of thought. What if, instead of just shooting fish in a particularly grimy barrel, we try a more… old fashioned approach?"

"Old-fashioned?"

He winced prematurely, as if already anticipating her negative reaction. "Well, not old-fashioned exactly. But certainly adopting more tied and true methods. I thought the column could double as a how-to guide, of sorts. How to make friends in a new city."

"What kind of methods?"

"I thought we might ease into it. Mutual friends. Actually, it was your friend, Ruby, that gave me the idea."

Considering recent events, Emma did not like the way this was going. Her displeasure must have shown on her face, because he was quick to correct himself.

"Well, not Ruby herself. But in befriending me, I couldn't help but notice that she has a Facebook friend in my extended circle of contacts. Edinburgh based."

"Really?" Before she knew what she was doing, she already had her phone out, her Facebook app booting up.

"Aye," Killian said, leaning in to peer at the device upside down. "And she has rather more than 39 Facebook Friends."

Emma snatched her phone back to her chest, eyes narrowing. "What? I'm not sentimental."

If anything, he looked amused. "Clearly. So this friend of hers, her name is Belle French. Ever met her?"

"Belle?" Emma asked, scrolling through Ruby's friends list until she hit paydirt. Belle French. The brunette in the picture wasn't immediately familiar, but when she opened up the profile and saw the woman's birthplace, something twigged.

"I haven't met her, but I know who she is. She's the Australian girl Ruby dated freshman year."

She waited for some leery comment, some perceptible widening of his eyes, but there was nothing. Emma had clearly been spending too much time around college boys.

"But that was before Ruby and I were friends," Emma continued. "I think she transferred to another college or something."

"And would you have any moral objections to befriending an ex of your friend?"

Emma considered that. "I mean, I'm pretty sure the break up was fairly amicable. Ruby isn't exactly the type to get emotional over something like that. Or she wasn't. Maybe now. But, you said she lives here?"

"Aye, she works in a library in Morningside. Children's librarian. She does all the little voices when she reads to them."

Emma frowned. It was way too much information to be accidentally gleaned from the internet. "Stalker, much?"

"Journalist, Swan," he corrected. "Journalist."

* * *

_**So has your friend blessed our endeavours? KJ** _

_You mean did she give me Belle French's email address? Yes. ES_

_**And she didn't mention any glaring personality defects or mutations? KJ** _

_Jfc, mutations? ES_

_**Let's just say trawling through your inbox these past weeks has been quite an education and leave it at that. KJ** _

_Yeah, you can't just say something like that and not back it up with pictorial evidence. ES_

_**I'm only thinking of you, Swan. KJ** _

_Jones. ES_

_**Prepare yourself. KJ** _

_**-KJ has sent you an image file-** _

_Oh my god. Why would they send me that? Why would, what even? ES_

_**I DID try to warn you. KJ** _

_That's a tail, right? ES_

_**I certainly hope so. KJ** _

* * *

**_Killian_ **

"Texting your new bird?"

Killian looked up from his phone, only to see Will giving him a conspiratorial look over his pint of ale.

Truthfully, Killian sometimes rued the day he ever became entangled with the likes of Will Scarlett. There was something squirrelly about the man, and it wasn't just his Midlands accent.

No, Will was more the the type of friend who liked to document each and every night out with a series of steadily more incriminating posts to social media, under the guise of 'havin' a laugh'. Not to mention the fondness for off-colour jokes and mysterious disappearances whenever it came time to stand his round.

Your man in a crisis, he was not.

"No new bird," Killian replied coolly, slipping his phone back into his pocket and taking a long sip of IPA.

_Robin was taking far too long to arrive._

"Then an old one?" Will enquired, undeterred by Killian's reticence. "Are you and that Kiwi chick still a thing? Because if you're not, I was thinking of-"

Killian held up a hand, forcing the man into silence. "You're not her type, trust me."

"What?" Will demanded, affronted. "Two-handed? Worried she might prefer a bloke who can multi-task?"

If Killian wasn't still nursing his first pint he might have punched him. Instead he settled for letting his prosthetic land on the table in front of him with a heavy thud. His false hand had fallen to the mercy of Lachie and a permanent marker the previous evening, so he'd foregone it today in favour of the more utilitarian hook. It had made him feel self-conscious on leaving the house, but now he appreciated the way the metal glinted menacingly by the low light of the overhead lights.

"Erudite," Killian corrected, rather enjoying the look on Will's face as he grappled with whether to be offended or not, the word ironically failing to appear in his own personal lexicon.

Mercifully, before Will could decide either way, Killian spied the third member of their party finally approaching, and turned to him in greeting.

"Sorry I'm late, lads," Robin said, as he took a seat opposite Killian, shedding his jacket. "The in-laws were late to pick up Roland. Some tosser tried to drive his lorry over the Forth in this wind and it fairly well cartwheeled over. Both lanes closed. Bloody nightmare."

Though they'd grown up together, Robin was in many ways the complete antithesis of Will. Where Will was flighty and irresponsible, Robin was dependable and steadfast. Though of course, Robin had a young son at home, and a wife not long in the ground.  _Fucking cancer._  You could argue he'd come by his virtues naturally, but it was hard to say for certain. Many a man had managed to forge themselves into something altogether stronger under the flame of adversity.

He reminded Killian almost uncomfortably of Liam at times, if Liam had only managed to hold onto his sense of humour post-having kids.

"So who's round is it?" Robin prompted, though he was already digging around for his own wallet. Killian didn't need to look up to tell that Will's chair was empty, and he breathed out a small sigh of relief.

"Cheap bastard," Robin chuckled, almost fondly. Like Will was a chronically misbehaving puppy that he couldn't quite stay mad at, no matter how many pairs of shoes it chewed through. Not an entirely erroneous description, now Killian thought about it. "Has he been giving you a hard time?"

"No more than usual," he shrugged, but he knew the way he was currently grinding his jaw probably spoke volumes.

Robin considered him closely. "I think it might be time to switch to something stronger."

"You just got here," Killian pointed out.

"Well, I've got some catching up to do, haven't I?" Robin said with a wink, clapping Killian on the shoulder as he made his way to the bar.

Lagavulin was his answer, coming back with three tumblers of amber liquid clutched precariously in his hands. Killian wasn't a habitual whisky drinker, but he wasn't one to turn down a dram of the good stuff. Let alone a double.

"You're keen," Killian noted, taking his tumbler with a grateful tip of his head.

"First night without the lad since, well… since just after the funeral, I suppose," Robin said soberly. "Might as well get properly scuttered."

The last time Killian had been properly scuttered he'd vomited in the back of a taxi and slept with his ex-girlfriend. Not the most promising of prospects.

"Do me a favour, will you?" he said suddenly, digging into his trousers pocket. "If I somehow get it into my head to call Tink tonight, do you think you can just throw my phone off a bridge instead?" he asked, tossing Robin the offending device.

"Whatever you say," Robin agreed with a mock salute. But before he could tuck it away, the phone buzzed in his hands, causing a sly smile to appear on his face.

"You've a text. A few of them, actually. From an Emma?" He raised a significant eyebrow.

Killian snatched the phone out of his hands, and tucked it back into his pocket, sight unseen.

"American Emma?" Robin asked.

"Aye," Killian grumbled out, taking the first sip of his whisky and letting it warm his insides.

"So it's going well, then?" Robin ventured. "The column? I've been following along, for the most part."

"S'fine. Well, alright, it's been a disaster, actually," Killian corrected. "The lass hasn't taken to it, and most everyone who responded to the ad in the first instance was just a mouth-breathing creep looking to get laid. I'm going to have to tweak the entire format."

"But you're still setting her up with strangers, yes?"

Killian shrugged. "In a manner of speaking. Already got the next one nearly lined up. A children's librarian from Australia. Quiet lass. A friend of Tink's, actually. She mentioned that her divorce just came through. Might be in need of some friendly distraction."

"Emotionally unavailable librarian type, you say?"

Killian hadn't even noticed Will slip back into his seat, but he already wanted to punch him again. He turned to him with a cold stare. "Don't even try it."

"She have a thing for the educated blokes, too?"

_Good to know someone had googled 'erudite' on his phone outside._

"Oh, c'mon," Robin coaxed, in a rare show of treachery. "This entire thing is about Emma making friends, yes? So why keep her all to yourself? Why not make a group outing of it? I would love to meet her, and I'm sure this librarian can handle anything our Mr Scarlett dishes out."

Killian wasn't sure why, but something inside him twisted uncomfortably at the idea of Emma mixing with his friends. Not that he thought she might embarrass him, or vice versa. Though introducing her to Will might belay all of the efforts he was making to save her from Edinburgh's creep contingent. It just felt… like it would go poorly.

"I don't think that's a good idea…"

"Oh, really? And what were you planning on having them do?" Robin said, in a way that was far too reminiscent of Liam sat at his desk, dismissing Killian' story pitches out of hand.

And god damn him, Killian caved. "They have a karaoke night in the pub up the stair. This librarian, Belle, apparently she's quite into that."

"Belle," Will whispered dreamily, and Killian kicked him under the table.

It was stupid, now he thought about it. Supposing that Emma and this virtual stranger might bond over mutual humiliation as they warbled their way through a Best of the 80s karaoke mix. He was an idiot.

But Robin, on the other hand, merely grinned. "That's brilliant. We could get a few more people together. Make a night of it."

"You remember when I said it would be a bad idea?" Killian reminded him.

"Trust me," Robin said. "I have it sorted."

With a growing sense of foreboding, Killian finished off the last of his whisky, and pulled out his wallet to pay for the next round.

* * *

_**You really can't spare ten minutes? KJ** _

_Hey, if you want to sit here and grade forty nearly identical papers about Alexander Hamilton that use a factually inaccurate, albeit brilliant, Broadway musical as an academic reference, you're welcome to switch places with me. ES_

_**And you make it sound so inviting. KJ** _

_Just spit it out, Jones. ES_

_**Alright. But first, some caveats: 1) It was not my idea, 2) My hand was forced, 3) I am paying you. KJ** _

…  _ES_

_**A few of my friends have taken it upon themselves to intercede in our Grand Experiment. Or to put it more plainly, in the interests of ruining my life they have decided to turn your friend-date with Belle into a "group-outing", with both them and I riding shotgun. KJ** _

_Scottish friends? ES_

_**Mostly English. Or John might be Welsh, actually. He doesn't say much, so it's hard to know. KJ** _

_Do you actually have any Scottish friends? ES_

_**Fewer than you'd think. KJ** _

_And how many people are we talking here, on this "group-outing"? ES_

_**You're being remarkably calm about this. KJ** _

_How many? ES_

_**Max 10. I promise. KJ** _

_And you can vouch for them? ES_

_**Most of them. Will is a tosser, but you can sort him out. Might be good for him, even. KJ** _

_Just… ES_

_Just don't leave me on my own with them, okay? You know I'm not good at small talk. ES_

_**Roger that. KJ** _

_**Thank you. KJ** _

_You owe me one, Jones. ES_

* * *

Killian was already halfway up the stairs from the station when he felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, checking the caller ID. It wasn't a number he recognised, though the area code was local. He was tempted to hit ignore, but in his line of work tips and sources came in all kinds. He answered.

"Mr Jones?" The voice on the other end of the phone was young, and to his ears, tearful.

"Aye?" No one ever called him Mr Jones. Not if he could help it.

"It's Ashley. Ashley Boyd? The babysitter?"

Ah, yes. The lass that picked the boys up from school, and watched them until their parents came home from work. Barely out of school herself, from what he could remember. A blonde slip of a girl that even Lachie couldn't bear to misbehave for. But why would she be calling him?

"Aye, I remember. What's the matter, lass? Are the boys okay?"

"They're fine. It's only, Mr Jones… that is, the other Mr Jones, he was supposed to come home and relieve me an hour ago, and he's not answering his phone. I called and left a message but…"

Killian's heart leapt into his throat.

"...I mean, I don't mind the extra hours usually, but I have an assignment due this week and…"

He tuned her out, his mind launching into a million terrible scenarios, each more horrific than the last. An hour late. Not answering phone. Not like Liam. Not at all.

"I'll be right there," he barked into the phone, taking the steps down two at a time, an arm already raised to hail a taxi.

He was halfway to calling Elsa when he remembered she was in London this week, meeting with potential investors for her next show. No need to worry her unnecessarily. Not immediately.

Instead he settled for dialling his brother's phone on a loop, leaving a series of increasingly frantic messages.

"Where the fucking hell are you? Pick up. Pick up."

"You'd better be in a bloody ditch, you bastard."

"Please don't be in a bloody ditch. Call me right back."

By the time the taxi pulled up at the house he practically threw a handful of notes at the driver, and raced up the drive, gravel crunching ominously underfoot.

His stomach lurched to see Ashley was still there, pacing the kitchen with a stricken look on her face.

"Mr Jones?" She said, her relief evident. "Oh, thank god. The boys have been asking questions and-

"Aye, thank you," he said, cutting her off before she started to spiral. He emptied out the rest of his wallet and pressed the cash into her sweaty palm. "Appreciate you staying, love."

She looked uncertain for a moment, but after a coaxing nod from Killian she gathered up her coat and bag, and headed for the front door, visibly relieved to be absolved of responsibility.

He went into the living room to check on the boys, still bickering gently over a pair of action figures.

"Uncle Killian?" Callum asked, when he emerged from the hallway. "Where's Daddy?"

"Just running a bit behind today, is all. You monsters hungry, yet? I was thinking pizza for dinner. Just while your Mum is away."

In Killian's experience, very little served to distract quite as well as the prospect of pizza. The boys seemed happy at least, moving on to arguing over toppings. Whilst they hotly debated the merits of pineapple vs no pineapple, he snuck back into the kitchen, phone already at his ear.

That was when he heard it. The crunch of gravel outside. Throwing his phone down on the counter, he sprinted towards the front door, pulling it open just in time to surprise the hell out of the person on the other side.

Liam.  _Liam._ He was looking a little weary, and visibly sweating despite the chill, but otherwise no worse for wear.

"You fucking wanker," Killian said by way of greeting, pulling his brother into a forceful hug against his will.

"Ger'off me," Liam complained, and Killian released his hold on him, still shaking with leftover adrenaline.

"What time do you call this?"

"I'm so sorry. Are the boys-?"

"They're fine. Oblivious. Expecting pizza, because I had to give them something. Might have overpaid your babysitter to the point of bribery though. She was freaking out. Hell,  _I_ was freaking out. Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"I didn't mean to worry you. My phone died. I was already running late…"

At that Liam gestured towards the clock above the stove, and Killian had a momentary panic all his own.

_Emma._

He'd forgotten to text Emma and tell her he would be late.

_Shit. Fuck._

* * *

_**I am so sorry. Family crisis. Now resolved. I'll be there as soon as I can. KJ** _

_**Swan? KJ** _

* * *

By the time he made it back to the Jinglin' Geordie it was already half nine, and karaoke night was in full swing. Or it was for one lass, anyway.  _Belle._  He recognised her from when he'd scoped out the library, now currently sobbing her way through the first verse of  _Wild Horses_.

He'd thought she was almost pretty the first time he'd seen her, in a fussy librarian kind of way. Now it was hard to tell either way, with her face blotchy and the mascara streaming down her cheeks.

_Bloody hell._

He looked around for Emma, for any of his compatriots, but the place was nearly empty, save for a handful of barflies at their usual posts. If he had to guess, he'd say the crying woman might have had something to do with that.

There was only one other customer, sat at the furthest table from the stage. She sat nursing a gin and tonic, reading from a stack of papers in her lap by the light of her phone.

Killian slid into the seat across from her, his hands already steepled in front of him. He startled her as he did so, the red pen sliding from her grasp and disappearing somewhere on the grimy carpet.

"So it's going well, I see."

Sarcasm hadn't been in his original plan, the one he'd been slowly forming in his mind on the taxi back into town. He'd had every intention of returning in a shower of profuse apologies. Free drinks. A bit of grovelling if necessary.

But upon seeing the fucking joke of an evening it had turned out to be, Killian could feel the apologies turn sour on his tongue. Why should he feel badly, when Emma clearly wasn't even going to try? She was marking essays, for chrissakes. On an evening out. And who the bloody hell knew where his friends had got to?

As if sensing his mood, or simply projecting one of her own, Emma's eyes narrowed.

"You think this is my fault?" she hissed, her stack of papers scattering as she leaned forward. "You think I wanted tonight to turn into Moaning Myrtle's Greatest Hits? And who are you to talk? At least I showed up!"

He couldn't say that their harsh whispering was attracting an audience, but the bartender certainly shot an annoyed glance their way.

Swallowing back an angry retort, Killian motioned for Emma to follow him, and lead the way to the side door. It opened out into a small designated smoking area, empty save for a derelict set of garden furniture and empty kegs. He motioned for her to take a seat, and she did, hugging herself against the cold.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," he said evenly. "But I really did have an emergency. I thought Liam- Bloody hell, it doesn't matter what I thought. The point is, my nephews needed me."

"I'm not mad about that!" Emma said, her voice gradually softening as she spoke. "I get it. Family stuff. It's important. What I'm mad about is you sending me in blind! I know you know she got divorced this week. You're you. Stalking people is your forte. So why not warn me? Why let me sit through two hours of this poor girl just unravelling before my eyes?"

She was right. He had known. Tink had warned him, in fact. And he'd simply dismissed it, figuring it wasn't relevant. Clearly he'd underestimated the potent cocktail of alcohol and song, and all the ways it could dredge up the worst possible feelings.

He should have known. He'd paired them often enough, once a time.

He decided on a new strategy: contrition.

"How long has she been crying?"

"Since about half way through  _Tiny Dancer_. No one could get the microphone off her after that. Not that a lot tried…"

"And my friends?" Killian asked gingerly.

"Ditched about half an hour in. I think they said something about the pub downstairs. Not that I blame them."

"Bloody traitors," Killian snarled.

"To be fair, they did ask me to go with them. But I thought I should… stay." She shot a regretful glance towards the door they'd just exited, as if even now she felt guilty for leaving the girl inside.

"And Will behaved himself?" Killian asked, surprised.

"Oh, no, Will is definitely a jerk. Major jerk. But Robin's okay. And your girlfriend is nice."

Killian nearly choked on his own saliva. " _My girlfriend?_ "

"It's Tink, right? The one from New Zealand? Is that really her name?"

" _Not_  my girlfriend," Killian wheezed out, still fighting to regain his composure.

"Really?" She looked almost amused. "Will said..."

Next time he thought about punching Will Scarlett he was actually going to follow through.

"Will is a wanker. As discussed. And Tink is a lovely lass, but she and I have always managed to make a right mess of things. So to say she's my girlfriend is viciously overstating what we have."

"So you do have something?"

Killian groaned, wondering how he came to be explaining his not-even relationship to Emma Swan, of all people. Was this payback for interrogating her about that Walsh fellow? Was this karma come back to bite him?

"We used to date," he admitted. "Now she mainly just yells at me. Which she used to do before, only now there's very little make up sex involved. Barely any, unless there's been far too much alcohol consumed."

"Sounds healthy," Emma said, patting him on the shoulder in a way that could only be condescending.

"Says the Queen of Healthy Relationships. How close were you to marrying a guy you didn't even love, again?"

She gave him a shove, and he elbowed her back, but neither of them put any feeling into it.

"So, Swan. How about we go put Ms French in a taxi and fetch our compatriots. I feel a song coming on."

"You're going to sing?" she asked doubtfully.

"Aye, if you will."

"I'm not really a singer…"

"I somehow doubt that. I can tell about people, Emma Swan, and  _you_ are a singer at heart." He wasn't sure how he was so certain. But he knew he was right.

"Yeah, in the shower, maybe…"

"A duet, then?" he suggested. "How do you feel about Sonny and Cher?"

"Please, god no."

" _A Whole New World?_ " he offered.

"You can't be serious."

"Elton John?"

"Better."

"Elton John it is."


	7. Slice of Life: March

**Slice of Life**

**March 2017**

**Killian Jones**

Greetings  _Saorsa_  subscribers and potential subscribers!

Are you prepared for another month's worth of well-meaning meddling into the affairs of others in order to  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_? Well then, congratulations, you're right on time.

And after the unmitigated disaster which was pairing our prickly American lass with a stubborn Scotswoman in the middle of a surprise snowstorm, we've plenty of ground to make up.

Rather than simply choose another stranger at random from the, frankly exhaustive, number of respondents from Emma's website, I have decided to vary my approach, so as to better mimic how one might make friends in a new city, a new country, outside of the highly improbable scenario of finding yourself in the centre of a rather awkward social media storm.

Which brings me to my first approach,  _1) The Friend of a Friend._

Not always going to be an option, of course, but if the entire world really does comprise of six degrees of separation, then surely the odds are in your favour. Put the feelers out. Do any of your friends already know someone living in or around your new city? Are they doing a passable job of not being complete tossers on social media? Then it might be time to reach out. If nothing else, you can chat awkwardly about your mutual friend, in between bleeding them dry of good pub recommendations.

At least, that's the working theory.

I proposed this approach to Emma Swan. Emma Swan who has a grand total of 39 Facebook Friends. Aye, really. 39.

"What?" she says, attempting in vain to hide the rest of her feed from me. "I'm not sentimental."

Perish the thought.

But miracle of miracles, after no small amount of internet snooping it transpires that one of her friends back home briefly dated an Australian lass, who has since relocated to bonnie Scotland. Or more specifically, Edinburgh, where she now works as a librarian. A librarian who, just to prove how tiny the world really is, also crops up in my own extended social network. That's right. It's kismet.

So, with fate on my side, I set these two kids up on their outing. An indoor excursion this time, for I've rather learned my lesson about the Scottish weather. Enter, karaoke. Oh yes. Turns out this sweet, unassuming bookish type is a bit of a demon for the open mic night. Just to take the pressure off, I agreed to bring a handful of acquaintances of mine along, and make it into a casual group outing. And if it gave me the opportunity to assess Emma's singing voice, well, it's all in greater service to the story, isn't it?

Now, I feel like I've come to know Emma Swan fairly well of late. Well enough to suspect I wasn't going to roll up at half nine and see the pair of them three cocktails in and belting out a Cyndi Lauper classic, arm-in-arm.

On the contrary, when I made my entrance, a little later than I had planned, something had clearly gone awry. Our librarian was on stage, hiccoughing her way through a tearful rendition of  _Wild Horses_. And what, pray tell, was Emma Swan doing? Why, she was sitting in the furthest booth, marking essays by the light of her phone.

In questioning her commitment to the project, the truth of the situation soon emerged. Our young librarian hadn't just come to Scotland for the crags and castles. Rather, she'd made the move out of love, having fallen for a Scottish gentleman a few decades her senior. Her family and friends hadn't approved the match, but she wouldn't be swayed. They married. They bought a house together. It was only after they'd reached the six month mark that our librarian realised his dangerous predilection for pills. Rehab ensued. Grand promises, soon to be followed by even grander disappointments. After close to a year on that same tired roundabout, a final ultimatum was made. He had to choose, her or his demons.

Cue nigh on three hours of heartsick ballads and drunken wallowing. Though I've got to hand it to the lass, she managed to restrain herself from straying into Adele's back catalogue. Small mercies, and all that.

Altogether, not the most promising start to a burgeoning friendship, though there might be room to revisit, once our librarian is a little less raw. As always, I leave the rest in their hands, whilst I look ahead to my next approach.

But if you were worried the evening was a complete wash out? Fear not. The small contingent I brought with me managed to liven things up a touch. And Emma Swan? It might have required a whole lot of cajoling to get her to pick up that microphone, but do not doubt, the lass has some serious pipes.

You're welcome.


	8. April

**_Killian_ **

Liam was not happy, to put it mildly.

The staff meeting had not gone well. In fact, to call it a fucking fiasco wouldn't have been too far off the mark. Normally, Killian was content to doze through the daily briefings, only too happy to tune out as his colleagues attempted to outdo each other in a race to churn out the cheesiest puff pieces they could. It was a race to the bottom, as far as Killian was concerned.

Alright, so his own copy was not exactly what you would call hard-hitting. Friendless Americans were hardly in the same realm as child soldiers, or Ebola. It certainly wasn't going to win him any awards any time soon. But at least he didn't spend fifteen minutes that morning boasting about bagging an interview with a second-tier novelist who was still content to tread the same tired ground Ian Rankin had first broken… thirty years ago.

No, Killian's usual method of coping through the morning briefing was to drink his subpar coffee in subdued silence, wishing he were still in bed. Or better yet, dead. And he might've continued in that vein, if he hadn't been busy scanning the newest copy edits to drown out the droning, and seen the hatchet job on page 7.

What came next, well... perhaps Killian could have handled things better. But in summary, no, Liam was not happy.

"For chrissakes, Killian," he said, one hand pulling his office door closed behind them, the fingers of the other pinching the bridge of his nose. "You can't keep doing this."

" _Me?_ " Killian asked in disbelief.

"Aye.  _You._  When I said I wanted you to become more engaged in the staff meetings, this is hardly what I meant!"

"I didn't-" Killian began, but Liam cut him off with defeated sigh.

"Did you really have to call her a  _dopey bint_?"

"Three different misspellings of the word 'bureau'!" Killian countered. " _Three!_  In an article that's barely 500 words long! Not to mention what she did to the title of the Edwards piece-"

"It's not about the typos!" Liam interrupted, slamming his palms down onto his desk with such force that the ornamental cup of pencils on his desk rattled in their container. "It's about the conduct.  _Your_ conduct. And honestly, I'm sick of making excuses for you!"

Liam rarely shouted. His weapon of choice was usually a look of quiet disappointment, one which he wielded with deadly intent. To see him properly hot under the collar… Killian felt like a chastened child, the first stirrings of shame warming his cheeks.

"Is that what you've been doing?" Killian responded softly, the words tripping off his tongue with a vulnerability that made him cringe inwardly.

Though he regretted his tone, it did at least seem to take some of the wind out of Liam's sails, his brother's expression morphing from anger to something more stricken.

"I didn't-" Liam began, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, "I didn't mean it like that."

"No?"

"Dammit, Killian," Liam groaned, sinking into his office chair with an audible squeak against the leather. "I'm trying here, okay? You think it's easy, running this place? With all the sniping and poor formatting, and Ingrid breathing down my neck 24/7, just waiting for an excuse to close us down?"

" _Close us down?_ " Killian repeated, momentarily sidetracked. He knew things had been difficult, but... "I thought the entire point of a family enterprise was she wouldn't do that?"

Liam's laugh was hollow as a drum. "Maybe if we were remotely profitable…" he responded bitterly. And then, as if realising for the first time the significance of what he just uttered, he straightened, and gave Killian a meaningful look. "You didn't hear that."

"Of course not," Killian scoffed.

"Look," Liam began, pasting on what Killian liked to think of as his  _reasonable_  face. "I know this isn't what you want to be doing. And I know Lindsay can come off as a barely literate braggard. But honestly? She's the best we can afford. So can't you just work with me here? Swallow your pride. Apologise to the lass. I don't have the budget to send you out for workplace sensitivity training, and I doubt it would take anyway. So can you do that? For me?"

Momentarily stunned at finding himself drawn into his brother's confidence, Killian could only nod at first. "Aye," he said, when he'd finally recovered himself. "I'll do that."

He could almost see the physical weight of it lifting off Liam's shoulders as he said the words. "Thank you."

"Anything to keep the ship afloat," Killian said with a mock salute to his captain.

At the flippant gesture, Liam's eyes narrowed. "You will make the apology convincing, won't you?"

"Of course."

"It will require a little more than your usual flowery language and empty platitudes, brother. I'm talking about a sincere apology."

Killian tapped his temple with his prosthetic fingers. "Leave it to me."

* * *

_**Did you get my email? KJ** _

_I'm not joining a mariachi band, Jones. ES_

**_It wasn't a mariachi band. It was a flamenco dancing class. KJ_ **

_Yeah, either way I'm not coordinated enough for that. And then there's the ruffles... ES_

_**Oh? And pray tell, what did ruffles ever do to you? KJ** _

_Homecoming, 2003. ES_

**_Oh really? KJ_ **

_Goodwill dress. Body glitter. Crimped hair. The works. There aren't any pictures. I know you would have liked that, but my foster brother burned them all. In hindsight, probably the nicest thing that little shit ever did. ES_

_**...So ruffles are out. KJ** _

_Ruffles are out. ES_

* * *

He was nearly home, the train just leaving Haymarket when his phone began to vibrate in his inside pocket, the chorus of  _American Woman_  bursting out through tinny speakers. Ignoring the woman opposite scowling at him over the top of her copy of Metro, he answered it.

"This is a surprise. Are you rethinking the ruffles, lass?"

At first there was just silence, and he wondered if the call had dropped out. But then at last, there was a deep intake of breath. "Uh, hi. Look, I know this is really weird to ask, but is there any chance you're, I don't know, nearby?"

Killian thought he'd seen Emma Swan in a few different modes by now, but the voice on the phone was an entirely new proposition. Small. Uncertain. If he didn't know any better, he might think she sounded apologetic. Not a setting he thought Emma Swan came in.

"Nearby to... where, exactly?"

"Oh, uh, my place. In Newington. Next to the old Jewish cemetery?"

"I'm not familiar. Is that near The Meadows by any chance?"

"A couple of blocks South. I'm sorry. You're probably busy. I'll just figure it out myself. I'm sorry to bother you."

Two sorries in as many seconds. Second guessing herself aloud. Alarm bells were ringing in Killian's head. Something was not alright with Emma Swan. Without giving it much thought he made a grab for his laptop bag beside him with his false hand and looped it over his shoulders.

"Just text me your address."

* * *

She was sitting on the curb out front of her building when his taxi pulled up, hugging her bag to her chest. She made for quite the pitiful looking figure, illuminated as she was by the sickening yellow glow of the streetlight.

She looked almost surprised to see him emerge from the back of the black cab, as if she'd never called him in the first place.

"You didn't have to come," she said, rising to her feet, her eyes not meeting his. "I'm fine."

But whatever else she was, Emma Swan didn't seem fine. In fact, she seemed to be shaking.

Killian had his jacket off in a moment, draping it across her shoulders. It was harder for her to avoid his scrutiny at this distance, and he could see the quiver of her lip. The tell that meant Emma was only just holding it together.

"My apartment," Emma said, gesturing vaguely at the building in front of them. "They tossed it."

"They?" Killian doubted very much Emma had been the subject of a visit from law enforcement, but it was good to be sure.

She just shrugged, and it was the most helpless gesture he'd ever seen from her. Just your garden variety criminal, then.

"Have you phoned the police?"

She shook her head, fingers reaching out to pull his jacket tighter around herself. "I tried to call 999, but then I remembered it wasn't an emergency, and I tried to google the right number but my fingers felt like jelly and I just-"

She was almost in tears by this point, so Killian did what anyone in his situation would do. He took a step forward hugged her.

She resisted at first, her spine stiffening and he couldn't bring himself to be entirely surprised. Whatever else Emma might be, she did not strike him as much of a hugger. A childhood in care would do that to you. But she didn't push him away, and Killian didn't let go.

Instead he held her against his chest, his one hand travelling up and down her upper arm in what he felt was a soothing manner. And then before he knew it, Emma Swan the stoic was gone, and the real Emma Swan, replete with all the usual human fears and vulnerabilities, was hugging him back.

* * *

They waited at a kebab shop down the street until the police were done doing whatever it was they did in such circumstances. Dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs, disturbing Emma's neighbours for potential eye-witness accounts. They weren't optimistic about an arrest.

It was only once they'd finally left a little after midnight that Killian trailed Emma upstairs, to see the damage for himself.

They'd done a real number on the place. Furniture overturned. Drawers tossed, their contents strewn about in haphazard piles. Cupboard doors left open to reveal broken crockery. The only saving grace was Emma hadn't stumbled upon them while they'd been at it, stuck in an evening lecture.

Killian gave a low whistle. "Any chance you've renter's insurance, Swan?"

She gave him a level look that told him exactly where he could stick his renter's insurance.

"Phoned the landlord?"

Emma shrugged. "She's in Tenerife, apparently. Along with like half of Scotland. I left a voicemail."

"Locksmith? I know a good one. So do you, come to think of it."

"I do?" she asked, momentarily shaken from surveying the devastation.

"Robin. From karaoke? Best in the business."

"Really? Locksmithing? I would not have picked that. He seems so…"

Killian could feel himself smile at her floundering. "Well-spoken?" he offered.

She blew out a breath. "Well, yeah."

"He went to one of those schools," Killian explained. "You know, with the straw boaters, and the latin? The kind that likes to spit out Prime Ministers and investment bankers? It's been a lifetime, but the accent's hard to shake."

"Like Hogwarts?"

Killian snorted. "If you like."

"So what?" she asked. "He's the black sheep of the family?"

"On the contrary. It's his father that's been a guest of Her Majesty's Prison Service these last twenty five years. Ponzi scheme. Cheated rather a lot of people out of their life savings, as it turned out."

"Holy shit."

"Aye," Killian agreed. "He's not had an easy time of it. And now with raising his son on his own. But despite it all, he might just be the best man I know."

"And a hell of a locksmith?" Emma ventured.

He smiled. "Aye, that too. But it's getting late, and the little lad would be in bed by now. I doubt he could make it here tonight." He grimaced, shooting a glance at Emma's front door where the thieves had kicked it in. He doubted it would even stay closed, the state it was in. "I think it'd be best if you slept elsewhere tonight, lass."

He should have known that Emma Swan, the stoic, would make her return at some point. But he still groaned inwardly when she saw her cross her arms over her chest in that infuriatingly familiar way.

"It's just one night," she reasoned. "It'll be fine."

He was amazed how so few words could set his blood to boiling. "Are you bloody mad? You can't stay in here with your door hanging off the bloody hinges.  _Clearly_  the building isn't secure. Pack a bag, and I'll drop you at the nearest Travelodge."

Emma gave a scornful laugh. "You think I can afford a Travelodge now someone's ransacked my place? Academics really don't get paid nearly as much as you think they do."

Killian groaned. "Stay with me, then. There's plenty of room, and Elsa would love a female presence to counteract all the testosterone."

"Honestly, Killian. I'm fine. You think I haven't been in tighter spots than this? There's no need to put anyone out. It's not like they're coming back."

She was a stubborn lass. He'd always known it, but it was somehow so much more frustrating when she was working against her own self-interest. It was time for Killian to do a little arm crossing of his own. "I'm not leaving you here."

Emma rolled her eyes. "It's not your problem."

"No? My column does rather depend of you being whole and healthy for the full year. I'd say it's entirely my problem, you putting yourself at risk like this."

"I'm not leaving," she said, her tone defiant.

"Well, then neither am I," Killian replied, with some defiance of his own. Then, to further illustrate his commitment to the cause, he settled himself down on her couch, raising one challenging brow.

Emma gave an exasperated groan, dropping down onto the couch beside him. "You're infuriating, you know that?" she said, turning to him.

"I'm aware."

"Look, I know I'm the one who called you. But I swear, it was just a momentary freak out when I saw the place. I'm fine now. I'll put something in front of the door. A dresser or something. I know you're trying to be all noble or whatever, but I'm not some damsel in distress. I can take care of myself."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Swan," Killian said, scratching at his beard with mild irritation, "that perhaps it isn't so much about me thinking you weak, quite so much as you being deserving of someone's help?"

Emma hesitated.

"At least let me help you tidy the place up," he offered. And then with a sly smile in her direction, "Or are you worried leaving me in your flat too long, I might take the opportunity to rifle through your unmentionables?"

He got an elbow to the kidney for that, but she didn't technically shoot down his offer. So he set about to make good on it, reaching over to pick up a lamp that had been knocked to the ground. He could feel Emma watching him, wordlessly, as he bent down to retrieve a stack of books that were scattered on the floor.

"Problem, Swan?"

But instead of a proper response, she just threw her hands up with an exasperated, resigned sound and stalked off into the other room.

* * *

They were into the wee hours before the place was mostly set to rights, a pile of rubbish bags by the door fit to bursting with ruined or broken things. The thief or thieves in question had certainly not been gentle in their search for Emma's more valuable possessions.

"About done?" he asked, as Emma shuffled back into the main room, clutching a broom.

"Done!" she announced, flopping down onto the couch with clear exhaustion, letting the broom fall to the floor with a clatter.

"So what's the final damage bill, then?" Killian asked, coming over to perch on the edge of the coffee table. "What did they get?"

Emma emitted a small sound from where she lay face down, but quickly righted herself, giving Killian her full attention. Her hair was askew from where she had lain on it, a glorious mess, and Killian found himself smiling softly despite himself.

"Well, the good news is they didn't take my laptop, since I had it with me. And they never found the emergency stash I keep under the sink, because men never think to check inside boxes of tampons. But apart from the broken dishes, it's mainly just jewellery and stuff. My phone charger, which is a hassle. Some DVDs. They're Harry Potter fans, apparently..." Emma mused.

"So all perfectly replaceable then?"

At that, Emma frowned, her gaze fixed on the carpet by her feet. "Yeah, mostly."

"Mostly?"

Emma glanced back to him, her fingers unconsciously grazing the skin below her throat. "There was a… a keychain. With a swan on it? It's not worth much or anything, but I don't know... It has sentimental value, I guess."

Killian wasn't sure what to say, so he nodded to show he understood. It wasn't as if he could promise its safe return. He'd written enough articles to know items stolen during your average burglary were rarely recovered. And truth be told, it bothered him, that this was something he was powerless to address.

"So," he began, stretching his legs out with a yawn. "It being somewhere between too early and too late, are we sleeping or are we staying up until we can give Robin a call?"

"We?" Emma repeated. "You don't have to stay. Believe me, you've done plenty. Go home. Go to sleep. Don't you have work tomorrow?"

Killian shrugged. "It's Saturday. There's nothing pressing." Truthfully, he'd agreed to watch the boys that evening, while Liam and Elsa had dinner with the dreaded Aunt-in-law. But he could sleep before that. Or he could just put on Monsters Inc and doze during...

Emma regarded him for a moment, before seeming to come to some internal decision. "Okay, fine. I'll put some coffee on. What's your stance on Netflix?"

Killian grinned. "Pro."

* * *

_Have you ever noticed that running tights only come in shades of Mountain Dew iridescent green or Barbie hot pink? ES_

**_What would you prefer, fire engine red? KJ_ **

_You have ONE red jacket and suddenly you're typecast... But seriously. Who wants to be that visible? I mean, you're running. You're not a poisonous frog. ES_

_**What exactly is your sudden fascination with lycra exercise wear? KJ** _

_Okay, umm… don't freak out, but I joined a jogging group. ES_

**-Killian Jones calling-**

* * *

**_Emma_ **

The array was dazzling. Rack after rack of form-fitting, garishy patterned tights that she couldn't imagine wearing in a million years.

Things had changed since the last time Emma gave the exercise thing a shot. Whatever happened to sweat pants? Muted colors? Leaving the house without looking like a packet of Skittles? If this selection was anything to go by, incognito was out this season.

Emma was intimidated, she could admit that much. And couldn't bring herself to be entirely surprised when Killian appeared, magical-like, just as she turned into the sports bra aisle. She should have known, just by the way he'd sounded on the phone.

How sad was it, that Killian Jones was more enthusiastic about her own social life than she was? Then again, he was extorting money out of the situation. So there was that.

"A jogging group?" he repeated breathlessly, his good hand still clutched to his side, as if he'd just taken Princes Street at a run, Trainspotting-style. Yep, he was far too enthusiastic about this.

"As I said on the phone..." she said pointedly.

"I thought exercise was the devil?"

Yeah, she'd said that. And at the time she'd meant it. Hell, Emma wasn't sure she didn't still mean it. She hadn't pulled on a pair of sneakers since high school. She'd thought in waving goodbye to Ms Garrett, the sadistic gym teacher with her equally sadistic whistle, she'd also been waving goodbye forever to the world of incidental exercise.

It turned out 'forever' was a strong word.

It was easy enough to make excuses when you were neck-deep in your PhD and subsisting off coffee and a stipend that barely covered rent. It was somewhat harder when you were for all intents and purposes a grown ass woman with a job, and a 401K and at least three pair of jeans in your closet that no longer fit.

Especially now she'd discovered they stocked Lucky Charms in her nearest Sainsbury's, and she was up to three bowls a day.

Even so, she hadn't gone out looking for it. Them. Her prospective running mates. She'd been more preoccupied at the time with just getting out of the apartment. And also maybe a little about her reputation on Instagram.

She had to admit she hadn't been having the easiest time getting to sleep in the apartment, post-break in. Even with that shiny new deadbolt Robin installed, she still overreacted to every noise and squeak. Every rattle of the plumbing through her bedroom wall.

She didn't even really like her apartment. Hadn't even bothered to personalize it, or make it feel like home. But it was still an invasion, and it still bothered her. Imagining them in her space, rifling through her things.

Even now she felt her fingers reach up to the hollow of her throat, absently stroking the skin where her swan should have rested, dangling on its chain.

In a way, she was glad it was gone. The last reminder of him. Now she was free to forget. Like it never even happened.

On the other hand, that seemed dangerous. Forgetting him also meant forgetting the greatest lesson he ever taught her. And Emma wouldn't be caught dead making the same mistake again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…

The Meadows were only a short walk from the apartment, a flat expanse of wet green grass emerging out of the early morning fog.  _Haar_ , Killian had called it, rolling in from the Firth of Forth like an extra in a bad B-movie.

The park was a favorite for students napping between classes, soaking up as much Vitamin D as the Scottish spring would give them. When Emma crossed it on her way home it was usually full of determined dog walkers and fitness bootcampers, lying spent on the grass.

At this time of day though, it was almost eerily quiet, without so much as birdsong to punctuate the silence. She could see some early morning joggers further on, ghostly figures in the mist, but they were barely there, intangible to her in her quest.

It was the cherry blossoms she'd come to see. It was the cherry blossoms that she was hoping would catapult her number of Instagram followers into four figures.

Everybody loved cherry blossoms.

They were a limited time engagement, and Emma had timed it just right. The cherry trees lined both sides of the avenues as they cut across the park at 45 degree angles, creating a canopy overhead of pretty pink flowers that wouldn't have been out of place in Mary Margaret's more ambitious pre-wedding scrapbooks. Paired with the fog, the  _haar_ , they looked like something out of a gothic fairytale.

Until, that is, the pair in the neon running gear came barrelling through the tunnel of trees, excitable chatter punctuated by necessary breaths. It wasn't a gothic fairytale, so much as a strange juxtaposition. Emma took the picture.

The girl on the left, a pretty brunette in a ponytail, noticed Emma and slowed down as they approached.

Emma took a quick step back, averting her eyes down to her phone, hoping to avoid a confrontation.

But the girl wasn't angry. On the other hand, she seemed way too chipper for not even six in the morning. "Oh my god, did you take a picture? Can I see? I bet it looks so cool with the blossom out."

Emma glanced at her, and then at her companion, an Asian girl with some serious muscle definition peeking out from the sleeve of her T-shirt. The girl gave Emma a look, one which almost pleaded to humor her. So Emma did. She turned her screen around to show them, and the brunette gave a delighted squeal, clutching her companion's arm.

"It's so cool! Please, can you send me it?" And then before Emma even knew what was happening, the girl had Emma's phone in her hands, and was inputting her phone number into contacts, unbidden.

Emma shared a look with the other girl, who only shrugged apologetically, as if this was par for the course.

Once she'd handed it back, she glanced down at the name she'd programmed into her phone.

"Aurora?" Emma repeated.

"That's me," the girl confirmed, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of maneuver that would leave a lesser woman with whiplash. "It's a really good picture. Are you like a photographer or something?"

"Or something," Emma admitted. And then, without giving it too much thought, she took a step forward. "I'm Emma."

"Nice to meet you," Aurora smiled. "And this is Mulan," she said, poking a thumb in her friend's direction. "Usually there's more of us, but I think the fog scared them off."

"Or the getting up before dawn…" Mulan offered, with a barely concealed yawn. "Not my idea," she mouthed, once Aurora had turned her back.

Emma found herself warming to the pair, and Emma never warmed to anyone.

"You do this a lot, then?"

"Four times a week," Aurora chirped. Mulan made a face behind her, and Emma fought to maintain her composure. "During semester anyway. Most of us go home in the breaks."

"You're students?"

"Postgrad," Mulan cut in. "Theoretical Physics. That's how we met. You?"

Theoretical Physics. Well, that wasn't intimidating at all.

"Oh. I uh… I'm a lecturer. Undergrad American History."

"Wow, you look so young to be teaching," Aurora said with something like awe. Emma liked her already.

"I'm still getting my sea legs," Emma admitted. "This is only my first year here. I was teaching back in the States before."

She expected the pair to feign interest, like most people did when she started talking about work. But as far as she could tell, she still had their undivided attention.

Was this really happening? Was Emma's real life actually passing the Bechdel Test for once? And what was she willing to do, to preserve that feeling?

"So," Emma began, clearing her throat a little. "Is your running group like a private thing, or are you open for new members?"

"You run?" Aurora asked, her tone immediately overeager. Behind her, Mulan rolled her eyes at her friend's new-found, almost evangelical, zeal.

"Not really," Emma confessed. "But I'm thinking of giving it a shot."

Aurora held out a hand. "Welcome to the team, Emma."

* * *

"Swan?"

At the sound of his voice, Emma's mind crashed back into the present, back into the basement of Sports Direct amidst a sea of neon sports bras, and Killian giving her a funny look.

"Sorry, spaced out for a second. What were you saying?"

"You mean you're doing this of your own volition?" he repeated. "No undue coercion? No one is holding a gun to your head?"

"Don't be so dramatic," Emma sighed, moving further into the section, in the hopes he might be scared off by the plethora of practical lingerie. But if anything, the opposite was true, Killian keeping pace with her.

"I'm just trying to understand."

"Well it was either that, or wait for you to force me into taking up swing dancing or racquetball or something. I figured I'd take my chances. Besides, they're nice."

"Nice?" Killian repeated, almost disbelievingly. "Who are you, and what have you done with Emma Swan?"

"What? I don't hate all people."

"Just most people."

Emma frowned, turning to face him. "I thought you'd be happy. I thought this is what you wanted me to do? Put myself out there, yada yada yada."

"Are you kidding? I'm ecstatic."

Emma let her eyes rake over him, taking in the distinct lack of ecstasy. "Sure you are."

"I will be ecstatic when I have my first coffee of the day," he corrected. "For right now, let's just pretend I am."

"Right."

"So, are you going to model any of these for me?" Killian asked, reaching out to grab a strappy black number off the rack, holding it against his chest with a suggestive smirk. "I've been told I have excellent taste."

Emma snatched it off him. "In your dreams, Jones."

Then she looked down, considering the item in her hands. "Okay, so this one is kind of nice."

* * *

_**Out of interest, do you know of any way to remove chewing gum from hair WITHOUT chopping it off? Ideally before his parents come home and find him like this... KJ** _

_Wow, that takes me back to 6th grade. Try olive oil. ES_

_**Thank you. KJ** _

_Which nephew got gummed? ES_

**_Lachie. Of course. Though I suspect Callum put him up to it. KJ_ **

_Being an Uncle sounds like a blast. ES_

_**That's certainly one word for it. KJ** _

* * *

Emma was dying, of that she was certain.

Everything hurt.  _Everything._  Her legs were like jelly and her heart beat so fast she was half worried it was going to burst straight through her chest, Alien-style.

Running was a stupid idea. She saw that now.

It was a shame, because she quite liked Aurora and Mulan. Even a few of the others were kind of nice, when they bothered to show up. And no one ever thought to pepper her with questions when she was running, not while she was busy making dying cow noises at the back of the pack. That was a bonus.

But on the whole? Running was the worst.

If only she hadn't spent so much on her new, stupid running clothes, she might've been able to justify quitting. But how could she? And make herself look like an idiot in another one of Killian's columns? She just knew he'd seize on this. Another early failure for their project. Another excuse for him to bring out the big words to describe her utter inability to gel with the general population.

Screw it. Screw him. She wasn't giving up. She wasn't flighty, or inconstant or whatever else he might think to call her. She was a serious, determined person, and running was a learned skill. She hoped. Killian could take a flying leap.

Naturally, it figured that who should appear around the next bend, reclining on a park bench with that infuriating devil-may-care grin, but the man himself?

"Whoa," she called, to the group in front of her, before collapsing down onto the grass in an undignified heap, chest heaving.

He stepped into her line of vision, leaning over her sprawled body with an amused expression. "Water?" he asked, pulling a bottle out of somewhere.

Emma could feel herself salivating. She made a pathetic grab for it, but he pulled it out of her reach just in time.

"I hate you," she moaned weakly.

"I know," he smiled, lowering the bottle into her hands.

She didn't waste any time, tearing off the lid and guzzling it down all at once.

"Space yourself," he cautioned, but she ignored him, tipping the bottle back further until the last of its contents poured down her throat.

"I like the tights. The red is a good look on you," he said, coming to sit on the grass beside her. Emma threw the empty bottle at his head, but he caught it before it could make contact.

"Such violence," he chided, tossing the bottle up in the air in a casual flip, and catching it again. "And here I thought exercise might help you to temper that latent aggression."

"You thought wrong," Emma said deadpan, before taking another deep lungful of cool, delicious air. "What are you doing here, anyway? Don't you have work soon?"

"Aye. I do. And since I'm not permitted into work this morning without making a grand and effusive apology to a woman who scant deserves it, I thought I might delay it a while. Plus I have something for you."

Emma pulled herself up into a sitting position to better look him in the eyes. "For me?"

"For you," he confirmed. "But not here. How do you feel about breakfast? The Pantry?"

"But that's in Stockbridge!" Emma whined.

"Aye. But their avocado toast is excellent. And I really have no desire to get to the office before noon."

"Speak for yourself. I have a lecture at 11."

"We'll cab it," he pulled a black card from his pocket, and fanned his face with it. "I've got the company card, and you could rightly argue that this is a work excursion."

Emma snorted, but he still let him pull her to her feet. Just in time for the rest of her running group to appear around the bend, having completed another lap

They clustered around Emma, and she could feel a few  _interested_  glances shot in Killian's direction. Of course.

"You did great!" Aurora said, coming over to envelop her in a sweaty hug. "That's one more lap than last time. I knew you'd get the hang of it!"

Emma didn't feel like she was getting the hang of it, but nevertheless, she hugged her back. "Thanks."

She heard a few of the girls whispering to each other, and she knew it was better to address the elephant in the room.

"This is Killian," she said, batting him with her elbow. "He's my… columnist," Emma finished lamely.

Mulan shot her a quizzical look, but Emma just shook her head. "I'll explain later. We're about done, right?"

Without waiting for the chorus of vague agreement, Emma already had Killian by elbow, dragging him away from his newfound admirers.

* * *

Killian was right. The avocado toast  _was_  excellent. Nearly worth the extortionate prices they were charging for it. Nearly.

"So you said you had something for me?" Emma prompted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh yes," he said, and then to her surprise, he reached behind his neck and unclasped the chain he wore around his neck. "Hold out your hand."

Before she could think too much about it, she did so and he dropped a silver medallion into her open palm. The metal was still warm from where it had lain against his skin.

"Uh, thanks? I didn't realize we'd reached the "gift giving" portion of our partnership. Especially jewellery with…" She squinted. "...religious iconography?"

"It's Saint Anthony," he explained, leaning forward to swipe a slice of tomato off her plate. "Patron Saint of Lost Things."

Emma shook her head. "But I'm not Catholic."

"Nor I. But for a couple of years we had some nuns looking after us. Some things tend to linger. I thought it might help you find that stolen keychain. Outside of that, I thought it might make a good placeholder, in the event it wasn't recovered."

Emma looked down at the medallion again, something curiously like tears burning at the corner of her eyes. It was a thoughtful gift. Really thoughtful. Emma couldn't remember the last time someone had given her one of those.

"Thank you," she said, glancing up so he knew she meant it.

He gave a small smile, and then as if sensing the strange tension that was fast filling the room, he cleared his throat. "You know, there was a Saint Killian."

"Was there?" Emma asked, drawing back her hair with one hand.

"Patron saint of rheumatism sufferers," Killian said softly, leaning forwards to take her hair between his fingers so she could secure the medallion herself.

"Catchy." Why were her fingers shaking?

"He has a feast day on 8th of July. I tried to convince everyone to leave me presents on that day in tribute, but no one went for it."

Finally, the clasp was secured, and Emma let the medallion fall between her breasts. She saw Killian's eyes follow the movement of it, then travel back to her face, cheeks coloring slightly.

"Funnily enough."

He cleared his throat again. "Except for my brother. Liam. He used to leave me a Galaxy bar on my pillow, every July 8th. Still does, in fact."

"I don't know what that is, but it's still cute."

Killian looked floored. "You've truly never had a Galaxy bar?"

"No?"

"Christ, Swan. I thought you Americans were at the forefront of all things confectionery."

"Funny."

Then suddenly Killian was rummaging around in his pockets for the credit card, and gathering up his coat.

"Uh, are you going somewhere?"

"Why, to get you a Galaxy Bar of course," he said, shrugging on his jacket. "Aren't you coming?"


	9. Slice of Life: April

**Slice of Life**

**April 2017**

**Killian Jones**

So, here we are again, one month closer to the grave. The weather's still rubbish, politics are unwatchable, and no one has seen hide nor hair of Robert Downey Jnr strolling about the Old Town. A fairly lacklustre April, all things considered.

How fortunate for you, then, there are other people's miseries to rejoice in. Take Emma Swan, for example. The recent transplant to this city on the hunt for that most elusive of beasts: good friends and good company. A quest which I have been tasked in assisting.

Now if you've been keeping up, you will know that our little project, for want of a better term, is not going particularly well.

First came Merida, the Highland lass with the predilection for pointy objects. Then there was our Antipodean librarian, suffering through a broken heart. I think it's fair to say my aim has been a little off. So much so, I was somewhat dreading having to rustle up a new contender for this month.

Only, this time around, Emma beat me to it.

You see, we had settled on her joining some kind of club or other. Some kind of amateur society that would force her to interact with others in the pursuit of a common interest.

Which brings us to our second calculated approach to making friends in a strange city:  _Join a club._

She nixed the idea of flamenco dancing. Ditto a drumming circle, though I maintain it would do wonders for all of that latent aggression…

But before I could get too dejected, I was surprised to find that Emma had taken the metaphorical bull by the horns and joined a running club.

Aye, a running club.

Coming from a woman who, in her own words, thinks _"exercise is the devil, CrossFit is_   _a_   _cult and bagels are life"_  you can imagine my skepticism.

And yet, one can confirm that four mornings a week Emma Swan has been donning an assortment of very fetching tights and pounding the pavement in the company of other women.

Women that she approached of her own accord, after a chance encounter in The Meadows. They're a varied contingent, comprising locals and more recent arrivals, all putting aside their aversions to early mornings in the name of cardiovascular health.

I met a few of them, in the name of due diligence. And I can confirm, all highly educated, funny women with a fitness level that far exceeds my own. One might find such a concentration of beauty, brains and superior lung capacity intimidating, but they seem to have welcomed Emma with open arms. She and her phosphorescent tights fit right in.

And here's the real miracle: She has no immediate plans to stop.

So have we  _finally_  put an end to our curse? Or is Emma just wily enough to select for herself a hobby that requires the barest modicum of talking?

You'll just have to tune in next time and find out.


	10. May

**_Emma_ **

* * *

_The next person who emails me asking for an extension on an assignment they've had ALL SEMESTER to do, I'm straight up murdering. ES_

_**I think that's what they call premeditation, Swan. KJ** _

_There are 33 emails in my inbox right now asking for last minute extensions. 33! Justifiable homicide. ES_

_**33? You're quite right. Not a jury in the land would convict you. KJ** _

_… This is the part where you chime in with your own work horror story, so I can see I'm being irrational. ES_

_**Is it? As you wish. I just thought seriously about poisoning our illiterate sub-editor with expired milk I found in the darkest recesses of the break room fridge. All because she used a Daily Mail-worthy pun as a headline for one of my articles. And I might've done, if the work experience kid hadn't just used up the last of it for his Ovaltine. KJ** _

_Oh god. Is he okay? ES_

_**For the moment. Looking a bit green around the gills though. I've a bet going with the Pictures Editor he won't make it til lunchtime. KJ** _

_Okay, so not exactly what I was going for, and yet, I feel strangely less like a monster. You, on the other hand, might want to get that kid to a doctor. And/or book yourself in for a refresher for that workplace sensitivity training seminar. ES_

**_According to Liam, there isn't an opening for six months. Believe me, he checked. KJ_ **

_Of course he did. So... 6 hours til happy hour at the Jingles. You in? ES_

**_Oh? Are you buying? KJ_ **

_The first round, sure. But only if you promise me it'll be an early night. I have 203 final assessments to grade. I DO NOT have time to be hungover. ES_

_**Your proposal is acceptable. KJ** _

* * *

Emma saw the poster on the last official teaching day before Reading Week, tacked to the pinboard outside her office. Poorly formatted, and clearly the work of someone with little to no design ability, it nevertheless managed to stop her in her tracks.

_End of Academic Year Staff Party_

_LASER TAG_

_School of Classics, Archaeology & History VS School of Social & Political Science_

_Has it ever rankled to be told we produce "Mickey Mouse" degrees? Have you ever been made to feel that your knowledge of Classic Greek literature was "too highbrow" to be relevant in today's job market? Ever run afoul of Tracy from Social Anthro in the Library Cafe?_

_Here's your chance to get your own back! Sign ups below._

Emma could feel something building in her gut. Something unpleasant and inevitable. Something like picturing herself strapped into a cheap plastic breastplate sometime in the near future.

Killian was going to have a field day.

* * *

Or, she thought he might, if she could just dig herself out from under the pile of term papers she needed to grade long enough to set up a meet with him.

It figured that all of the empty space in Emma's schedule would evaporate just as soon as the weather turned. Living under so many layers for so long, Emma had almost forgotten the sun was supposed to have any real warming ability at all. But suddenly, just as the semester was drawing to a close, it re-appeared with a vengeance, and the city was utterly transformed.

Gone were the puffer jackets and tights, the Gore-Tex and the ugly sweaters Emma had long considered to be the unofficial national uniform. Instead the sidewalks became filled with pasty-limbed people displaying their newly liberated flesh with the kind of exhibitionist zeal Emma hadn't seen since her first Spring Break trip to Florida.

She nearly tripped over a few as they lay sunning themselves out on the Meadows, oblivious to her sweaty, breathless approach. Not to mention the ten or so pubs she had to avoid on her walk home from work, the pavements outside bursting with mismatched outdoor furniture someone had scrounged up in a hurry. All of them packed with sun-worshippers in the most reptilian tradition, and none of them alone.

 _Who were these people?_  Emma wondered. Drinking Magners mid-afternoon and stripped down to the barest essentials, always an audience for their bawdy jokes.  _Where had they all materialized from? Didn't they have jobs to go to?_

In contrast, Emma's apartment remained completely ignorant of the change in seasons, still cold as a morgue. Her south-facing windows not only had a great view of the brick wall opposite, but they also brought in precisely zero natural light.

It really was a shitty apartment.

And if she had to spend any more time cooped up in it, alone, wrapped in three sweaters while she read circuitous papers in defence of Andrew Jackson, she was going to go crazy.

She had to get out.

She discovered it by accident, really, one day last November when she'd been caught in a surprise hailstorm, and looking for somewhere warm and dry to scarf down the rest of her Greggs donut. Her office-mate had office hours, and the University library stacks were always too crowded with clueless undergrads or amorous couples looking for privacy.

But the City Library? There were whole floors where the only ones around were harmless old biddies working on their genealogies, and their peripheral vision wasn't the greatest. It was the perfect place to devour a forbidden pastry, or wait out a hailstorm or two. Or run into the very Englishman you'd been meaning to text back.

Emma liked the Reference Library best. It looked kind the kind of thing a fairy tale Beast might gift to a reluctant new house guest to win her over: floor-to-ceiling shelves lining every wall, supported by cast iron balustrades reachable by spiral staircases, an imposing geometric dome that looked like it came right out of Versailles. For the nerds, original card indicies. And for the displaced American history lecturer: plentiful desk space, wi-fi and always somewhere to charge your phone.

Emma had always considered the place to be kind of her little secret. No matter the time of year or weather, it was never too crowded. But there was no mistaking the leather-clad figure sat alone in the second row, feet up on the desk, nose buried in a thin paperback.

He didn't register her proximity as Emma made her approach, even as she bent down to get a better look at what had him so engrossed.

" _'Codes, Ciphers and Secret Writing'_?" Emma read aloud, perversely gratified to see him lurch forward in his seat, caught unawares. She clicked her tongue as she took the seat next door. "If you're considering taking up a career as a spy, you might want to make yourself  _slightly_  harder to sneak up on. Just a tip."

He set the book down on the desk, shooting her a somewhat annoyed glance. "Well this is a turn up for the books. It's been so long between texts I thought maybe you'd done in one of your students, and were lost to the ravages of the criminal justice system forever."

Emma made a face.

"No? Well, small mercies I suppose. And fancy seeing you here. I didn't really pick you for a fan of French Renaissance architecture, Swan. Or was there some other marvel you'd come to admire?" He asked, batting his eyelashes in the kind of over-the-top way that would put a silent film ingénue to shame.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Sorry to deflate that massive ego of yours, but I'm not stalking you. I'm just here for the free wifi. How was I supposed to know you'd be here… studying spycraft?"

"So just a happy coincidence then?" He held her gaze for a moment, like he didn't quite believe her. "Well then, as to the book, believe me, Swan, I have zero aspirations towards the Security Services. Callum, however…"

At that, a young woman a few rows down glanced up from her MacBook to give them the evil eye, and Killian ducked his head, slipping a piece of paper from out between the pages of the book, marked with an indecipherable jumble of numbers written in a childish blue scrawl.

"He's off penguins for the minute," he continued, his voice now little more than a hushed whisper. "Now it's codes. Ciphers. Secret communiqués. Which wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, if the lad hadn't refused to communicate in any other way..." He scrubbed a hand over his face, his frustration plain.

By the sound of it, things might have been a little tense at the breakfast table lately.

Emma whistled through her teeth, though she fought to match his soft tones. "Wow. I think when I was eight years old, all I cared about was ponies."

He glanced up at her then, the unspoken  _'Is that so?'_  making her cheeks color. Even when he said nothing at all, Killian still found ways to make her regret every casual remark, every tiny breadcrumb she unwittingly left behind of the childhood she'd tried so hard to forget.

"Let me see that," Emma said hotly, snatching the coded message from where it lay before him, leaning forward to examine it.

Then without thinking too much about it, she plucked the red pen from her hair that she'd been using to keep her bun in place, and set about making a series of tiny scribbles.

Killian, his book apparently forgotten, leaned over to study her work. "Know a thing or two about ciphers, do we, lass?"

Emma shrugged. "A bit. It came free with my John Jay obsession. But Callum's what? Eight, right? So it's probably not anything too difficult…"

The numbers could mean he was using a book as the key. Each number corresponding to a page and paragraph in the book where the desired word lay. Jay had been a fan of that particular method. He'd favored a dictionary as his key, usually. But the numbers Callum had written…

Emma drew up the matrix, smiling to herself as the childish meaning behind the code slowly became clear. She twisted the paper back in Killian's direction with a victorious flourish.

"Lachie... is... a…" she translated. "Well, you can see for yourself."

Killian's eyes widened looking from the paper, back to Emma, his mouth agape. "You're bloody brilliant, Swan."

Emma wasn't sure she'd ever been told that before. By anyone. Certainly not by someone who'd never been on the receiving end of one of her blow jobs. It was a single stray thought that stuck uncomfortably in her thoughts, and had her barreling on in a hurry to fill the awkward pause.

"It's a six-sided Polybius square," Emma explained, keeping her eyes trained to the piece of paper. "I'm pretty sure I read somewhere POWs in Vietnam used a variant of it to communicate between their cells. But Callum's numbers only go up to 6, so I… what?"

He was staring.

"Nothing," he said with a cough, though she could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

"You okay?"

He shook his head. "Of course. I was just thinking…"

"Thinking what?" Emma asked warily.

Looking kind of like he'd rather the ground rose up and swallowed him instead, Killian sighed and met Emma's eye, shooting her a look that was so direct she was tempted to scoot her chair back to give them some space. "I was just thinking that Dr Swan is quite a good look on you."

Emma opened her mouth, to what? Scoff? Say thank you? Luckily, she never had to find out, the silence punctuated by a series of conspicuous buzzing noises.

Emma heard MacBook Girl's muttered curse.  _As if she wasn't just dicking around on Facebook, like everyone else._

"Forgive me," Killian murmured, clearing his throat and reaching into his pocket and fishing out the device. Whatever he read on that screen, his face immediately pulled into a tight frown and he rose out of his chair all at once.

"Everything okay?" Emma asked, growing concerned.

"Hmmm."

It was not the most convincing sound Emma had ever heard.

As if somehow sensing Emma's frustration, he raised his gaze from the phone to look at her, his expression softening a fraction around the eyes. "Apologies, Swan," he said with a pained smile. "It appears I'm needed elsewhere."

He hovered a moment, his weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. "I need to head back to the office first. Would you like to walk with me? Or is the lure of free wi-fi too good an inducement to pass up?"

Emma glanced down at her watch, which showed the time to be little past noon. She'd been planning on enjoying the silence of solitude of the library a little more. Make a dent in her grading somewhere with decent heating and what passed for natural light.

But given the look on his face right now, and the way he was clenching his jaw, the fact that he'd even asked meant he probably really, really needed the distraction. And Emma might be pretty selfish on her best days, but she wasn't cruel. And it just so happened, she had a particular distraction in mind.

"Sure," she said, letting some of her weight fall onto his proffered prosthetic, as she rose from her chair.

"Sure, I've got time."

* * *

Yeah, he was a fan of the laser tag idea.

His mood wasn't  _buoyant_  exactly, as they wended their way along Castle Terrace, dodging Chinese tour groups who were arriving by the busload, selfie sticks at the ready. But the idea of Emma making a humiliating spectacle of herself certainly seemed to hold some kind of appeal for him.

He was no longer actively brooding.

"I can just picture it now; Emma Swan: Jungle Warrior."

Emma snorted. Then she opened her mouth to refute this, and then closed it again, considering her track record.

Killian considered her shrewdly. "Something you'd like to share with the class?"

"I don't know…I don't know if you know this about me, but I'm kind of competitive. The last time I did something like this, it got kind of…  _ugly_."

"Define  _ugly_."

"We went paintballing for David's birthday one year and August ended up in the ER with a dislocated knee."

Killian winced.

"He says he can still feel it when it rains. Of course, he's a novelist, so he's kind of known for being needlessly dramatic so..."

Encouraged by the prospect of mayhem, the usual mischievous sparkle was returning to Killian's eyes. "I think this competitive side is something I've got to see for myself."

"Too bad you're not invited, then, huh?"

"I could be…?"  _Oh no. No way. Was he really pulling puppy dog eyes right now?_

"No way. Not happening. You can put those eyes away. It's a work event. The administration are already on my case about this whole thing enough as it is."

"And if I talk them 'round?"

"You're not going to get the administration to change their minds about me with a winsome smile and pretty boy charm."

"You think I'm pretty?"

Emma just rolled her eyes, and nudged him into the path of an oncoming tour group.

* * *

_When I got back to the library I realized you left your book, btw. I returned it. Figured you didn't need it anymore? ES_

_**Indeed I don't. In cracking his code, I believe you've exhausted Callum's sudden passion for cryptography. At least, for now. Elsa would like to express her eternal gratitude. KJ** _

_Wow. Look at me, extinguishing a young boy's thirst for learning. Clearly I've got this whole teacher thing on lockdown. ES_

_**Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I saw him googling nebulas on the iPad earlier. I dare say another obsession is in the offing. One that might drive his mother a little less insane. KJ** _

_Well, that's something. ES_

* * *

Okay, so clearly the administration was into winsome smiles and pretty boy charm, because the next thing Emma knew, she was seated on a university-chartered bus headed out into the hinterland, her columnist stretched out of the seat beside her.

_Because that was a super normal thing to bring along to a work event._

Emma found it easiest to ignore the curious looks of her bus-mates by picturing how she was going to wipe the floor with each and every one of them when they got to where they were going.

For the most part, the reluctant recruits they'd manage to scrape together from the School of Social & Political Science did not inspire awe. Emma was pretty sure she could take them. Between Tracy from Social Anthro with her scoliosis, and Glen from British Politics with his spare tire, they seemed a pretty ragtag bunch, not suited to roughing it in the great outdoors.

There was only one among them who looked like a contender, the bearded guy in the army surplus jacket dozing at the back of the bus.

His possible narcolepsy aside, he at least seemed to be in decent shape, if the cut of jaw was any indication. As if he could feel her gaze on him, his eyes blinked open, and Emma turned back to Killian, who'd suddenly trailed off mid-sentence.

"And you didn't hear anything I just said, did you?"

Emma cringed inwardly. "Sorry. I was just sizing up the competition."

"Oh?" He enquired, his tone lightening. "And how do they measure up, in your estimation?"

Emma shrugged. "I think it's in the bag. Our combined youth-"

"Your fighting spirit-" Killian interrupted.

"And the fact the history department won against the Divinity School last year... ," Emma continued, ignoring him.

"What about Rambo over there?" Killian asked, raising his chin to indicate the same guy Emma had been caught checking out before. "He looks like he might present a challenge."

"Yeah, well," Emma said, refusing to follow his gaze. "We'll see."

* * *

If Emma thought she might be able to somehow avoid this handsome stranger, maybe she should have remembered that she was cursed. Because when they nominated team captains, somehow it was him that Emma found herself facing off against.

The two of them stood awkwardly, forced to wait while some teenaged employee scrounged around in the pockets of his cargo pants for a coin to flip to determine territory.

And he  _was_  handsome, there was no getting around it. Nice hair, just on the manageable side of curly. Admittedly impressive biceps peeking out from underneath an ill-fitting plastic breastplate. Not to mention the warm, friendly smile as he held out a hand.

"Best of luck," he said.

Oh, and an accent.  _A very nice accent._

"And to you," Emma said graciously, accepting the handshake. She might have been naturally competitive, but there was no need to be rude.

"I don't think I've seen you on campus before," he mentioned casually, even as his hand still clasped over hers. "I'm Graham Humbert, International Relations."

The way he said it, with his tongue peeking out to wet his lower lip, she wondered if he was flirting with her. She wondered if she wanted him to be.

"Emma Swan," she replied, letting her hand fall back down to her side, palm tingling. "American History."

* * *

_**Killian** _

Killian Jones was no stranger to using his masculine wiles to his advantage. Though he'd been something of an awkward youth, his university years had been their own sort of education, quite aside from his unfinished philosophy degree.

Now, as a mediocre journalist with few moral scruples, he employed charm and flattery as tools of the trade. What better way to put an interview subject at ease? Or finesse that long-guarded secret from someone's lips?

True,  _Saorsa_  was hardly  _The Guardian_. He wasn't uncovering government corruption at it's highest levels or netting himself any Pulitzers. Though he did manage to stir up a hornet's nest in Parliament that one time, after he got a MSP to admit to an extra-marital affair. Necessary to the public interest it was not, but it never did the circulation numbers any harm.

It was these skills he thought might help secure him a spot on the team bus to Lugton Bogs, the aptly named quagmire that was home to Edinburgh's premier, and only, outdoor laser tag centre. Or at the very least, might improve Emma's standing with the university after a rocky start.

Killian's first port of call? The Press and Public Relations department, tucked away in cobbled alley near Sandy Bell's. And from the rising stink of it, mostly treated as an open latrine by some of the male patrons of said watering hole after one too many libations at the weekend.

The inside was decidedly more pleasant, sheltered from the stench by double glazed windows and a heavy steel door. The office itself was attractive enough, a hive of industry playing to the soundtrack of ringing telephones. He stopped to ask the way to the right office, and was directed up to the first floor, where cubicles gave way to actual offices.

It was a promising start, he thought. That is, until he seated himself in a rather uncomfortable chair outside his target office, and had gotten a good look at the nameplate velcroed to the door.

That Killian's quarry turned out to be a male was regrettable, and a waste of Killian's talents. That Killian's quarry turned out to be none other than Robert Gold, native Glaswegian and former husband of one Belle French, Killian thought perhaps it wasn't too late to do the honourable thing and fall on his sword.

He'd never been stupid enough to name Belle directly, but realistically, how many Australian librarians in Edinburgh could there be? And here was the very man Killian had publicly outed just a few short months ago, as a man who'd chosen his pill addiction over his marriage.

 _This_  was the man he had sought?

Killian was already halfway to his feet, ready to skive off their meeting with great urgency, when the door opened and out stepped a slight, silver-haired man, leaning heavily on a cane.

Tink hadn't been lying when she'd said he'd been older.

"Killian Jones, is it?" he asked, looking bored.

Hello, rock. Hello, hard place. Killian's first temptation was still to flee, but seeing as he was half-standing in plain sight, it seemed that ship had long sailed.

Instead he straightened, and held out a hand, trying to keep his voice quiver-free. "Aye, Killian Jones. I believe you're the man to see about getting oneself included on an employee outing?"

* * *

For all his vices, Robert Gold did have one thing to his credit; he did not seem to be a Saorsa subscriber. Indeed, Killian's name did not seem to bring about any flash of recognition. Nor, to Killian's immense relief, a sudden zeal to sue for libel.

Though now Killian knew what to look for, he very much doubted the man would have much legal grounds. From the sweat soaking through his dress shirt, to the sallow complexion, to the pupils round as saucers, there was no way Robert Gold wasn't in the throes of some chemical cocktail. The single life clearly wasn't working for him.

He did, however, seem for the moment to be all-business.

"Laser tag?" he enquired.

Not sure if he was asking for an explanation, or merely a confirmation, Killian hesitated. "Something of an annual tradition from what I understand. Pitting department against department, all in the name of friendly competition."

Gold nodded, absently.

"And this…" He peered down to examine the form in front of him. "... Emma Swan. You're writing a column about her personal life?"

"It's more an exploration on the nature of adult friendships. How difficult it is to make meaningful connections when you find yourself separated from your familiar networks. Emma is merely a vehicle I'm using to…" Killian fumbled for a suitable word. "...illustrate the point."

"Hmmm."

With any luck, that  _"Hmmm"_  meant that Gold found the idea tedious, and never wanted to hear about it again. Still, Killian wondered how long it would take him to convince their IT guy to "accidentally" corrupt the link to February's column online.

"And you feel it would be helpful to you if you 'tagged along' on this outing?"

Truthfully, now he'd gotten Ruby to confirm Emma's ER story, he mostly just wanted to watch her in action. But something told him Gold wouldn't be particularly sympathetic to his plight.

"I think it would lend my words a certain credibility, if I was actually present for the events, certainly."

Gold looked thoughtful, as if he was actually entertaining the idea. Or perhaps he was just meaning to add his next date with his dealer to his personal calendar. At any rate, he didn't make Killian wait too long.

"There's a number of forms to fill out," the Glaswegian declared airily, pulling a stack of papers from a filing cabinet. "And some insurance concerns. I imagine your employer can email through proof of that?"

Could they? Killian certainly hoped so.

"Aye, of course."

"Of course, we don't ask for copy approval ahead of time,  _we're not totalitarian savages_. But you should be aware that we are always looking for ways to promote the university as a diverse, innovative and enjoyable workplace. Sometimes this means entering partnerships with members of the fourth estate, and sometimes that means breaking off such arrangements, if we feel our aims are not in concert. If you understand my meaning?"

 _Don't burn any bridges_. Duly noted.

At Killian's nod of acquiescence, Gold clapped his hands together. "Well then, dearie, it looks like we have ourselves a deal. Blue pen, or black?"

* * *

**_And you thought it couldn't be done. KJ_ **

_You didn't. ES_

_**I did. KJ** _

_Please tell me you're joking? ES_

_**Alas, the cramp I'm nursing after signing near a dozen documents in triplicate says otherwise. I am UoE approved, and ready to watch Emma Swan go full berserker. KJ** _

_I hate you. ES_

_**I know. KJ** _

* * *

" _Players must keep two hands on the phaser at all time to activate it. This is a safety feature which prevents the phaser being held at an arm's length_ ," Killian read the tiny warning sticker on the side of his gun aloud.

Well, wasn't that just fantastic.

Killian looked around for some teenaged, zero-hour contract flunky he could flag down, but after the initial hubbub of the coin toss, they'd all but vanished. The stand of trees stood all but empty now, except for the handful of middle-aged academics in green vests, wheezing as they made their way over the rise.

_Sod it._

His gun might be fucking useless, but that didn't mean he couldn't do what he came here to do: Watch Emma Swan kick arse and take names.

She really was in fine form. She might have been surprised by her appointment to team captain, but Killian wasn't. She was the only one among them who actually looked like they knew what they were doing, and objectively speaking, she looked good doing it.

And as the reluctantly appointed leader, she was the one leading the charge to the enemy compound, organising her little band using military tactics she'd probably lifted straight from Che Guevara. This was exactly why people shouldn't cross history professors.

Expending the last of his lung capacity, Killian caught up with Emma's splinter group, just in time to hear the electronic sound effect that signalled a direct hit to the man to his left.

"Six o' clock," Killian bellowed, diving for the cover of the nearest tree stump. Emma was already there, pinned down by two more red-vests advancing from the other side.

"Alright, Swan?" he asked, wiping at his forehead with the sleeve of his useless arm.

To his delight, she actually seemed to be enjoying this, her face aflush with activity, her grin wide. She turned his way, tucking a stray tuft of hair behind her ear. "Give us the the tools, and we will finish the job."

Churchill. She was quoting fucking Churchill.

But as she heard her compatriots fall to enemy fire, he could see the enthusiasm in her eyes visibly dim with each electronic squeal. If they stayed here too long, Rambo and the lasses from Gender Studies were going to pick them off, one by one.

Someone had to do something, and quickly.

And that someone might as well be the eejit with the gun that didn't bloody work.

Nudging Emma's shoulder, he pointed to a pile of boulders a little way off. "You make for those, and I'll cover you."

Emma looked from the pile, back to Killian. "Are you crazy? That's like twenty yards. There's no way we'll both make it."

"Only one way to know for sure," Killian said, rising from his hiding place, and giving her no choice but to follow his lead.

"Aargh," she cried, scrambling to her feet, rifle at the ready. "You know I hate you, right?"

"Aye, Swan," he said, swinging to face his aggressors head-on. "I know."

It wasn't a drawn-out death.

To Killian's satisfaction, a few of them had turned and fled when they saw him stand up. But Rambo, the bearded leader of the opposition seemed clue-ier than his friends. He saw the diversion for what it was. And as Emma darted out from behind the stump, he set his sights accordingly. Might have gotten her too, if Killian hadn't stepped into the line of fire.

"You do know the purpose of the game is  _not_  to get hit, right?" Rambo called after him.

But instead of replying, Killian merely slung his rifle up onto his shoulder and headed back to the holding area, humming a song under his breath.

* * *

In the end, Emma decimated them, as he knew she would. All but Rambo, that cocksure son of a bitch. He had military training, of that Killian was certain. Or at least a stint in the cadets. He was a little _too_  at ease, in Killian's view.

Still, Emma managed to hold her own, waiting the bastard out until the clock ran down.

A draw.

He thought he might shout Emma a drink for this. Something tall and refreshing. But as she emerged from the stand of trees, still aglow with near-victory, he saw she wasn't alone. Rambo strode along beside her, the two of them getting on suspiciously well for people who'd just been trying to "kill" one another.

Killian shrank back, letting himself fall back into a crowd of archaeology professors, comparing aches and pains. They certainly weren't of the Indiana Jones mould.

He wouldn't say he  _watched them_. He merely observed them, like any other dispassionate member of the fourth estate. And how could he not notice his subject's pleasure at this man's company? The way her gaze dropped downward as they shook hands, a rare show of shyness.

Emma liked him. Rambo. Whatever his name was. Even a blind man could see it.

As far as the project was concerned, this was good news. Emma Swan, single and ready to mingle? Hell, it was a boon. Not to say one's social life never suffered from embarking on a new relationship, but it was a damned sight better than Emma staying home every night with her marking and her Netflix.

So why did the sight of Emma typing her number into the man's phone suddenly make Killian feel queasy? This was a good thing.

He should be happy for her.

* * *

Getting home took a little longer than anticipated. Not least because he stopped by the Jingles on the way and emptied out their stores of Captain Morgan.

"Maybe you should call it a night, eh?" the bar man suggested, just around the time Killian's vision started going blurry.

Recalling Liam's last lecture about "unnecessary expenses" he walked the rest of the way home, taking a somewhat circuitous route through a few back gardens.

He struggled with the lock, frustrated to find his keys kept slipping from his hand. He almost had it when the door suddenly fell in, and Killian with it.

"What the-"

Who else but Liam stood over him, arms crossed in that same look of quiet disappointment he'd been wearing for years.

"Good night was it?" his brother asked coolly, reaching forward to help him up.

"Geroff me, you judgy git," Killian scowled, rising to his feet perfectly well on his own, with nary a wobble. "Would 'ave been fine, you hadn't opened the door like that."

Liam stepped away, hands held up in surrender. "If you insist." And then after a moment, "Why do you look like you've been at the Somme?"

Killian looked down at himself, to the best approximation of combat clothes his wardrobe had to offer, now caked in mud to the knee, and streaked with dirt elsewhere.

"Laser tag," Killian replied. "S'for work."

"Hmm," Liam hummed. "Let me guess, you weren't on the winning side?"

If you wanted to get technical about it, it had been a draw. But deep down, Killian couldn't kid himself on that front.

Whichever side he'd been on had definitely been the losing one.

* * *

_**And how were drinks with Rambo? KJ** _

_Graham. His name is Graham. ES_

**_So it is. Does that sharp rebuke mean that in addition to guerrilla warfare, the man also excels at scintillating conversation over cocktails? KJ_ **

_Has anyone ever told you you're a shameless gossip? ES_

_**Once or twice. Though I much prefer the term "indomitable busybody." That's my favourite. KJ** _

_Gee, I wonder why. And for your information, it wasn't terrible. ES_

_**Coming from you, Swan, that's almost a ringing endorsement. KJ** _

_23 25-32-33-45 51-33-43 42-33-33-25 42-22-11-42 12-26-11-41-42 16-33-36 31-15. ES_

**_23'31 41-43-36-15 23 22-11-44-15 32-33 23-14-15-11 45-22-11-42 51-33-43 31-15-11-32. KJ_ **

_Whatever you say, buddy. Good night, Killian. ES_

_**Good night, Emma. KJ** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codebreaking is encouraged.


	11. Slice of Life: May

**Slice of Life**

**May 2017**

**Killian Jones**

Hello there. This month's missive comes to you direct from the crowded sands of Portobello Beach, where I am currently wrestling deadlines whilst on the constant look out for opportunistic young families from West Lothian who circle like buzzards, ready to exploit any signs of weakness to depose me from the prime piece of beachfront real estate where I've staked my claim. It's a tricky business, and with the mercury edging ever closer to twenty degrees centigrade, a sure sign that summer is finally on the approach.

It is a beginning, to be sure. Of near constant sunshine and a few months reprieve from beanie hats and long johns. But for some, it can also be an ending. For the not-insubstantial student population of Edinburgh, it marks the end of a gruelling exam period before they disappear back to the loving clutches of their childhood bedrooms for the summer. And for one Emma Swan, it presents the opportunity to mix with her co-workers at a succession of events designed to farewell the academic year.

Which brings us to our latest guide to making friends as a stranger in a strange land:  _Exploit your working relationships._

Now, since I have carelessly revealed Emma's place of work to you previously, I should stipulate that I have, in fact, sought approval from the relevant people to tell this little tale. There were forms, signed in triplicate. It's all very above board. Names have been changed and obscured to protect innocent and guilty alike. Mostly.

Alright, now we've gotten the obligatory legal nonsense out of the way, let us return to the event at hand, in fair Lugton Bogs, where we lay our scene. A rather unattractive name for the sight of perhaps Edinburgh's premier laser tag facility, set amongst a small thicket of trees just beyond the city bypass.

Indeed, in their infinite wisdom, the heads of the School of Classics, Archaeology and History thought there would be no better way to unify their department, than to let them face off against their colleagues from the School of Social and Political Science. In the woods. With lasers.

And in the spirit of scientific inquiry, I was reluctantly brought along.

Now, in theory, laser tag is marginally less dangerous than its more colourful cousin, paintball. After all, no one is copping a pellet to the face. And there is little need to dress in unflattering human-sized condoms to protect one's clothing from paint splatters. But those who would consider it a harmless kind of team-building exercise, have clearly never seen Emma Swan at work in faded fatigues, clutching a fake rifle.

She is, in short, a force to be reckoned with.

Over the course of two hours, I saw this woman decimate her competition, capture and hold flags, and evade enemy snipers like some sort of lithe blonde ninja. The running group certainly seemed to be paying dividends.

By the end, there remained only a single obstacle in her path, a fellow on the opposing team I later discovered had actual combat experience. We'll call him… Grant.

Now I'm sure a lesser man would be troubled by the woodland prowess of this upstart American, but when the two hours wound to a close and the game was declared a draw, I witnessed something truly remarkable. A genial smile at the hands of our stubborn heroine. A handshake that spoke of mutual respect. And most tellingly of all, a drinks invitation to follow.

A fine lesson to all of us, I'm sure, in not tempering one's abilities to appear more likeable to the group. To be exceptional is no bad thing. And if we are lucky enough to find someone who appreciates us for our talents, even in the most unlikely of circumstances, so much the better.

And for the rest of us, the less remarkable? The ones whose disabilities might mean they aren't terribly suited to the handling of small arms, plastic or otherwise? Well, I've heard there is graciousness in defeat. And that's not such a terrible quality in itself.


	12. June

**Killian**

Killian had the entire bus ride out to the wilds of Musselburgh to get a grip on his anger. A whole forty minutes to compose his thoughts, an hour if you factored in having to stop home to change. A leather jacket wasn’t going to cut it with this crowd.

It was Ladies Day at the races.

The one day a year when the movers and shakers of South Eastern Scotland congregated to blag their way through a succession of conversations about horse racing as if they had any clue. Anything to impress the boss, or seal that deal. The place was fit to bursting with moneyed types and semi-famous faces. People he’d shaken hands with at various luncheons and dinners, and other pretentious press events masquerading as dining opportunities.

He never grew used to it. It didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d welcomed Elsa and her not-inconsiderable trust fund into the family, or lived in that veritable mansion on East Castle Road. When it came to mingling with the blue bloods, Killian always came out of the encounter feeling like some kind of Dickensian orphan, who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong part of town.

There was a clear distinction in this crowd, between the girls in their frocks and fascinators sipping champagne on the grass, and the shifty-eyed types sitting in the stands, betting slips clutched tight in grubby fists.

Killian knew the type well. The kind who still thought his losses could be recovered, if only he chose the right horse. The right name. Wore the right socks, and said the right prayers. They were the usual faces, who’d shown up despite the pomp and inflated prices at the gate. That might divert the usual punter to a betting shop on Clerk Street, but not these diehards. They wouldn’t let a small thing like that stand between them and the ponies. They were also probably the only ones in attendance who’d actually bothered to read the form guide beforehand.

For now, the weather was holding, but Killian predicted there might be something of something of an exodus, sooner or later. Dark clouds were unfurling on the horizon, and he didn’t think those women in their strappy high heels stood much of a chance when the deluge arrived. It would be a quagmire.

He was almost tempted to stick around long enough to enjoy the spectacle, but that wasn’t his primary goal. He had another, less entertaining focus for his attentions.

Malcolm Weaver.

He was, as Killian suspected he would be, right in the thick of things. It was his laugh that first gave him away, the oily artifice of it audible from twenty paces. The face, when it came into view, merely drove that impression home. This was not a man content to age gracefully. Instead, Weaver seemed to be doing everything in his power to keep the years at bay, his hair plugs and unmoving forehead a testament to his vanity.

Killian caught the moment Weaver clapped eyes on him, his dentist white smile dimming mid-anecdote before he had a chance to recover himself.

Killian swiped a champagne flute from a passing tray and took a sip as he watched Weaver excuse himself from his conversation. But before he could speak, a third party appeared from Killian’s left, two meaty fists grabbing him roughly by the lapels of his borrowed suit jacket.

Of course. A lackey. Every wannabe gangster’s favourite spring accessory.

“You might’ve bought me a dinner first,” Killian cracked, as the man relieved him of his champagne, and started in on a none-too-gentle pat down. When he got to the prosthetic he hesitated, but Weaver just waved him away.

“Even Killian Jones isn’t stupid enough to impale me on his own hook in front of twelve MSPs and the Chief Constable. Leave us.”

The goon did as instructed, slipping into the crowd scarily easily for a man approximately the size and weight of a mountain gorilla.

“Friendly chap,” Killian commented idly, smoothing down his jacket from where it had been crumpled in the man’s grasp. He was missing a button, he noticed. There’d be hell to pay for that later.

“Felix? He’s a good lad. Very… effective,” Weaver finished, drinking down the last of his own champagne. “I take it this is about the money.”

“Aye, it’s about the fucking money.”

“I’ve been expecting you to come beating down my door for months now, or has the elder brother Jones become better at hiding his dirty laundry than he used to be?” Weaver mused, indicating to a passing waitress for a refill.

“You should’ve turned him away,” Killian ground out, with something approaching a snarl. “You should’ve left him alone.”

“Left  _him_  alone? Dear boy,  _he’s_  the one that came to  _me_. All I did was help out an old friend.”

“ _Help?_ ” Killian practically spat the word. “By charging him, what? Forty percent interest? Fifty?”

“Well, I am a businessman,” Weaver replied, accepting his refreshed beverage with a sly grin and a wink in the server’s direction.

“You’re a snake,” Killian corrected. “A slimy, nouveau-riche bastard so terrified of your own mortality you’ve turned yourself into a human Ken doll.”

Weaver’s answering smile was venomous, white teeth flashing as his lips strained against his frozen facial muscles. “Well,” he said, making eye contact with someone behind Killian’s shoulder, “so much for pleasantries. At least I’m not a one-handed man with a drinking problem.”

The blow came out of nowhere, a fat fist square to the eye socket.

“Bloody hell!” Killian staggered backwards, hand clutched to his face as it exploded with pain.

Somewhere from outside of his haze of his agony, he could hear the sound of Weaver’s voice close by, cold and menacing. “Try to interfere in my business again, and you’ll lose that other hand. And do tell your brother I said hello.”

* * *

 

_It can’t be that bad. ES_

**_-KJ has sent you an image file-_ **

_I stand corrected. He got you good. And he’s what? A source? ES_

**_Something like that. KJ_ **

_Might be time to re-evaluate that relationship… ES_

**_I concur. KJ_ **

_Pint? ES_

**_Please. KJ_ **

* * *

 

“So?”

Emma took a few steps back to survey her work, a deep crinkle settling between her eyebrows.

Killian sighed, reaching for his pint glass. “I knew it. He knocked the handsome out of me.”

Emma snorted, twisting the cap back onto her concealer with an involuntary smile. “The concealer helps,” she admitted. “But there’s not a lot I can do about the swelling. My advice? Frozen peas. And if you  _have_  to show your face in public? Aviators.”

Killian thought of the pair she’d worn the week before, as they’d sat out in the Meadows after her latest 5k torture session, and wondered how much of this advice might stem from experience. How many of those light, precise touches she’d used to disguise the worst of his injury she’d already perfected in the mirror.

He wasn’t oblivious to the reputation of the foster system where Emma had grown up. She certainly didn’t seem to have too many positive things to say about the experience. He’d only had to endure being in care for a few years. She’d been raised by a revolving door of strangers from infancy.  

The way her hand had shaken as she grazed the worst of his bruises-

Clearing his throat, Killian turned his attention to the front of the bar, where the storm he’d predicted earlier now lashed against the windows with a steady ferocity. It hurt to raise an eyebrow, but still, he managed it.

“Or maybe a cool cover story?” Emma suggested smoothly. “Apprehended a purse thief? Foiled a kidnapping? Insulted Mike Tyson?”

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

Emma grinned, downing the last contents of her glass. “You are welcome. You can keep those. And the concealer,” she said, placing the little tube onto the bar in front of him.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, noticing her reach for her jacket. It was the same one she’d worn when they’d first met, soft red leather, and hardly weather appropriate considering the downpour outside.

“Maybe I am,” she said airily, pulling her arms through the sleeves. “But if you think I’m going to tell you about it so you can gossip to all of your subscribers…” She gave him a level look.

“ _Ah_.” Perhaps, in hindsight, he could’ve been a tad more circumspect when it came to the  _Grant_  issue in his last column.

“Yes,  _ah_. You should’ve seen the amount of notifications I got after Mary Margaret read your piece. Not to mention the sidelong glances I’ve been getting at work. Those have been super fun. You’re kind of a son of a bitch, you know that?”

He did. He did know that. And one day, he might even make it up to her. Perhaps. In the meantime though…

“Indeed. And that’s why I pay you the big bucks,” he said sarcastically, reaching into his satchel to extract the agreed fee, £100 of pound coins, wrapped in a calico bank bag. Rather than pressing it into her hands, he settled for leaving the bag at her feet, as if this were a far more clandestine exchange.

“Why do you always have to make this out like it’s sordid as hell?” she wondered aloud, frowning as she stuffed the contents away into her messenger bag.

“I must have a knack,” Killian shrugged. “Those are new coins, by the way. I do hope your landlord has changed that barbaric coin meter of yours, because the bank has stopped giving out the old ones.”

Emma made a face. A face that said her landlord had probably done nothing of the sort. “Yeah, I’ll get on that. Thanks.”

She stood up to go, but was surprised when Killian’s prosthetic tapped her on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “Jones?”

He held out an umbrella. His umbrella, hurriedly retrieved from his bag. “Probably too soon in the relationship for Graham to meet Drowned Rat Emma, don’t you think?”

She rolled her eyes, but she took the umbrella.

“You forgot to mention how dashing I look in this suit!” he called after her.

She turned her face away, but he still caught the smile stretching wide across her features as she pulled open the door. “No, I didn’t!” she called back, her shout barely audible above the roar of the rain.

* * *

 

_Are you icing that eye? ES_

**_Are you texting me while Graham is in the loo? KJ_ **

_You mean the bathroom? Maybe. Possibly. Yes. Don’t change the subject. There had better be some frozen vegetables in close proximity to your face right now. ES_

**_Waitrose branded sweetcorn. Are you satisfied? KJ_ **

_I never knew corn could be elitist until right this minute. ES_

**_Believe it. And that’s not forgetting the time I zoned out reading the ingredients on the box of Waitrose brand cereal and came to five hours later in a voting booth, pen poised to vote Tory. Every day in this house is a struggle. KJ_ **

_Ha. Graham’s coming back. Look after that eye. And try not to give in to any sudden conservative tendencies. ES_

**_But who else offers Strong and Stable Leadership? KJ_ **

_Thin fucking ice. ES_

* * *

 

He’d debated how to approach the conversation, but in the end he decided to just rip off that plaster once and for all. He was tired of the secrets. Of the lies. Of pretending everything was normal when everything was so very far from normal.

This was probably how his mother had felt, he realised, when finally confronted with the truth of her husband’s addictions, of the spiralling debts and tangled web of half-truths and broken promises.

He was there to greet Liam as he came in the door, house keys still clutched in his hand, tie askew after another long day cooped up in his office, reading over the latest copy edits.

“Is that my suit?” he asked, shrugging his laptop case from his shoulders with a frown. Which Killian took as all the invitation he needed to properly step into the light, letting his brother see his face.

Even with Emma’s best work, there was no hiding the worst of it. And it must’ve still looked pretty bloody awful because Liam stopped dead where he stood, house keys falling from his hand and clattering onto the floorboards.

“Kil?” It was the same tone he’d used in the hospital, the day Killian’s life had fallen apart. The same one he’d used that morning twenty three years ago when they’d woken up and found their father’s car gone, his wardrobe stripped bare. By their mother’s graveside, as they’d buried her in the cold earth.

“Malcolm Weaver sends his regards. And it’s about time you and I had an honest conversation for once, don’t you think?”

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Emma**

It had been a while since Emma had played the dating game. The getting-to-know-you game. The how-many-siblings game. The where-did-you-get-that-scar game. Like subjecting someone to a chronology of your more embarrassing teenage anecdotes made tumbling into bed together after three martinis and an awkward handjob in the back of an Uber less sleazy somehow.

For some people, the little things were just that, little. But for Emma, even the most innocuous first date questions turned into stumbling blocks.

“So, what do your parents do?”  _Ha._

“Where’d you grow up?”  _Ugh._

“What does the tattoo mean?”  _Geez._

Sometimes, she wished she could just skip all of the tedious minutiae, and proceed with the naked bedroom aerobics. Did that make her a tramp? Probably. So sue her. Graham Humbert, Professor of International Relations was cute, he was interested, and he was available. But how long would that last, when he learned the truth? Spilling your guts about your shitty childhood and non-existent family was not exactly a precursor to hot, sweaty good times.

God, she really needed to get laid.

But if Graham knew where Emma’s thoughts lay, he was playing it coy. It was their third official date, and so far, there had been zero hints he had any wild seduction plans for later. Just a nice dinner, and drinks at a trendy cocktail bar in the New Town she’d only ever read about.

“You okay?” he asked, setting down her third daiquiri on the bar in front of her. “Is it evaluations?”

Oh, right. Evaluations. As in, all of the student feedback that would be collated over the next week or so, frankly assessing her merit as a teacher. As in, the single largest obstacle which would stand between her and a renewal of her contract. As in, what she probably should have been focusing on, instead of counting the days since her last orgasm.

Still, she took the easy out, releasing a relieved breath. “That obvious, huh?”

He shrugged, a grin forming. “You do seem a little wound up.”

Maybe Graham was gay. That would explain it. How else could a man be so, so oblivious? Killian would’ve seen right through her by now, would’ve already made at least three double entendres and a sly offer to “relieve the pressure”, just to torture her.

God, why was she even thinking about him? Graham was right in front of her. With the biceps and the accent and the research grant. Maybe it was time to take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

“You know,” she began, twirling her straw suggestively between her fingers, “I’m sure there’s plenty you could do to take my mind off of it.”

Okay, so it was a cheap line. But judging by the flare of interest in Graham’s eye, the way his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, it hit its mark. So maybe not so gay after all.

“Yeah?” he said, leaning closer, gaze definitely falling to her lips.

“Yeah.”

She was within a hair’s breadth of making contact when the shrill insistence of a strange ringtone pierced the air, causing them to both jump in their seats, their foreheads cracking together with all of the grace of a slapstick comedy duo.

“Ow. Sorry.”

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Still rubbing at the spot where they’d collided, he reached inside his jeans pocket. His phone. Of course it fucking was. He answered it on the third ring.

Emma didn’t catch much of his half of the conversation, what with the lump rapidly forming on her forehead, but she caught enough of it to know this evening was not going to end the way she’d been imagining when she’d picked out her underwear this morning.

Not that the conk to the head had been that great of an omen.

His face was regretful, and that alone would have to be enough to sustain her. “I’m really sorry, Emma,” he began, but she cut him off before he could continue with the sorry spiel.

“Rain check?” she offered.

His smile was a relieved one. “Definitely,” he said, letting a parting kiss graze her cheek. “I’ll text you.”

Once he was gone, Emma let her fingers trace the all-too-brief path his lips had tracked across her skin, considering the untouched whisky he’d left behind. She took a sip, letting it burn its way down into her chest. Added some water. Then let the rest follow, warming her from the inside out.

* * *

 

_So I see your shiner, and raise you one bruised forehead. I didn’t antagonize anyone though, my life is just a comedy of errors. We probably shouldn’t be seen together for a while, or people will assume we’ve joined an underground Fight Club or something. ES_

_Really? Nothing? ES_

_Did you seriously fall asleep before 10 on a Saturday? I’m almost disappointed. ES_

_You are asleep, aren’t you? Because if you somehow sustained a concussion, and fell into a coma I’ll feel really bad. ES_

_Please text me tomorrow and tell me that isn’t the case. ES_

_On the other hand, if through some miracle you still managed to “pull a bird” even with that grotesque black eye, and are currently warming her bed, I’d rather not hear the details. As you were. ES_

_Just… don’t be in a coma. ES_

**_Good morning. Not in a coma. I promise. KJ_ **

* * *

 

With the semester over, and a couple of weeks left until she had to teach any summer school modules, Emma Swan found herself with a serious problem. Free time. A lot of it.

Huge swathes of empty hours when she had nothing to focus on except her lack of a social life, her lack of a sex life, and how her academic future lay in the hands of a bunch of 18 year olds who could only be convinced to fill out their evaluation forms with the inducement of a prize draw to win a free iPad.

If only she hadn’t just dropped a large chunk of change on her flight home for Christmas, she could’ve gone somewhere. The Continent. London. Instead she settled for an off-peak train to Glasgow, sheltering from yet another torrential downpour in the baroque confines of the Kelvingrove Museum.

Ever since she was a young, Emma had always loved museums. Very few places let a skinny kid with hand-me-down clothes and a permanent scowl linger for hours at a time in the middle of a blizzard. It felt like everywhere she went, she was being shadowed by security guards and shopkeepers, just waiting for her to make a wrong move.

Museum attendants, though? They were always looking to indoctrinate the next generation.  And growing up in the North East, there’d been no shortage of monuments and exhibitions devoted to freedom-loving America’s heroic triumph over Britain.

Back then, it had seemed like a Cinderella story to her. Better than a Cinderella story, even, because instead of balls and dresses and true love, there’d been something worth fighting for. There’d been the scrappy underdog winning against the guy with all the money and fancy uniforms.

She was old enough now to know she’d been projecting, but it didn’t seem to matter anyhow. The course had been set, the die cast. Emma was a history nerd, and she liked museums. The faint whiff of epoxy, the lingering scent of cosmoline. Mothballs and musty books. It was  _home_ , in a way a single place had never been.

Even the crowds of dripping tourists couldn’t ruin this for her, as she narrowly ducked out of the way of a visiting tour group, crowded around a canvas Emma had once written a paper on in Art History 101.

“Suck it in!” the tour operator declared, in aberrant English. “Now there are some who might say this painting is ‘kitschy’ but I let you make up your own mind. But it is, without doubt, the most enduring vision of the crucifixion painted in the 20th century. Notice the triangle? A clear reference to the Holy Trinity. And do you see the circle?”

The crowd leaned in, chattering excitedly between themselves as each layer of meaning was revealed, as the origins of the work were discussed and debated.

_This_. Emma had missed this. She’d spent so much time lately repeating the same tired lectures to the same uninspired freshmen, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to really just  _enjoy_  the art. The history. The mysteries that lingered inside half-forgotten volumes and coded diaries, still waiting to be discovered.

And with that, Emma thought she might just have an idea. Her best one in a while.

* * *

 

**_I’m dying, Swan. Dying. KJ_ **

_Before our year is up? You wouldn’t give me the satisfaction. ES_

**_True. KJ_ **

**_Still feel bloody awful though. KJ_ **

**_I’ll never forgive Lachie for bringing this plague upon this house. KJ_ **

_Aren’t you his godfather? ES_

**_Details, love. KJ_ **

* * *

 

Emma didn’t make a habit of turning up unannounced in well-heeled neighborhoods, her bag crammed with every over-the-counter cold medicine available in Boots. On the whole, she preferred her own more derelict side of town, her bag drug free. But Killian had just sounded so pathetic in his texts she’d somehow convinced herself it would be a good idea to check up on him.

It was stupid. She was stupid. And as she heard the approaching slap of bare feet against the hardwood floors from within Killian’s ridiculous mansion, she quickly debated the merits of just making a run for it.

No, she wasn’t a kid anymore. She didn’t just knock on people’s doors and run away as fast as she could. She was an adult. Bearing medicine. It wasn’t that weird.

Fortunately, before she had to talk herself down again the door swung open.

Emma was aware of Elsa Jones. She’d clocked the wedding portrait sitting on the mantelpiece last time. The Nordic beauty with more money than God, and no bad angles. The owner of the bluest of blue eyes, that put even Killian’s to shame. She sat on the periphery of Killian’s tales of his crazy family, always a benevolent presence, a peacemaker. An ally.

But if Emma had the good sense to be intimidated by her two-dimensional mental rendering of Elsa Jones, it was nothing compared to the reality that stood in the Jones’ front foyer, giving Emma the skeptical once-over.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. Or the way she wore her designer loungewear, with just the right amount of casual elegance. Not even the way she held herself, with posture right out of a Swiss finishing school. It was that first, frosty look.

The one that caught Emma in its wake and rendered her mute, as her carefully opening lines died on the vine. The woman waited, silent but expectant.

“Hi, I’m-” Emma cleared her throat, and tried again. “Sorry, hi. I’m Emma. Is Killian up for receiving visitors?”

She would ordinarily have stuck out a hand at this juncture, anything to punctuate the grotesque silence. But both of her hands were occupied with bags, and even reaching for the knocker had been painful enough.

“Emma,” Elsa repeated, letting the word settle on her tongue like a new vocabulary word. And then her entire aspect seemed to thaw, as the name registered. “You mean  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_  Emma?”

Clearly Killian’s column had at least  _one_  reader who wasn’t an octogenarian.

“Uh, yup.” At a loss for what else to say, Emma held up the bags she’d lugged all the way from the high street. “I uh, I was just bringing some stuff over for Killian, but if he’s not up for visitors I could just leave it with-”

But before Emma could make with the hasty retreat, there came the sound of frantic footsteps behind her and she turned to see none other than the patient in question, barefoot and limping from contact with the gravel driveway.

“Swan?”

Sick Killian was a study in contrasts. On one hand, the sweatpants, bed-head thing was a good look on him. But there was definitely a sheen, a pallid tinge to his complexion that hinted of a drawn-out conflict against foreign antibodies. But it was the T-Shirt that really stole the show. The one with the cartoon Tyrannosaurus Rex on the front catching some Z’s, with the caption: _Dino-Snore._

Emma resisted the urge to dig out her phone and take a picture, for posterity’s sake. But she couldn’t quite stop the grin spreading across her face.

_“Dino-snore?”_

He scowled, but whatever snide comeback he had forming on his lips died a swift death when he caught the look in his sister-in-law’s eye. With a roll of his eyes, Killian propped the door open, and motioned for Emma to come inside.

“Swan, my sister-in-law, Elsa Jones,” he said, with a weary wave of his hand. “Elsa, this is the eponymous Emma Swan.”

Now things were official, Emma dumped her bags down onto the area rug, and held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the blonde replied, a perfectly manicured hand finding Emma’s own. “I’ve been reading Killian’s columns, of course, but it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

Elsa’s grip was firm, confident, even if her hands were a little cold. Poor circulation, maybe.

Killian gave a pointed cough, a hand coming up to scratch up behind his ear. “Well, this is all very civilized. So, what brings you to our plague den, lass?”

Emma looked from Elsa, back to Killian. “Speaking of which, why were you outside? I thought you were practically at death’s door?”

Killian hesitated, and that was when Elsa stepped in, a sardonic smile in place. “Killian’s room has its own entrance. He probably thought he could intercept you before we ever came into contact.” She turned to her brother-in-law with a shrug. “Too slow.”

Emma liked her immediately.

“Would you like something to drink, Emma?” Elsa asked suddenly. “Tea? Coffee? A glass of water?”

Yeah, someone had definitely been drilled in the finer points of etiquette as a child. But before Emma could decline the offer, Killian took a step forward, interrupting her. “She’ll take a water, love. And any chance you’d fix me up another Lemsip?”

Elsa’s eyes narrowed, but after shooting Killian a meaningful glance, she plastered on a smile. “I’ll be right back,” she assured Emma, before disappearing down the hall in the direction of the kitchen.

“So…” Emma began, lamely.

“So…” Killian finished, no better. “Been shopping?” he asked at last, pointing out the bags she’d abandoned earlier.

“Oh, those. They’re, uh, they’re for you.”

“Me?” He knelt down to peek inside one of the bags. “Did you just bring me industrial-sized quantities of phenylephrine, love?”

Well, when he put it like _that_ it sounded weird.

“Erm, I guess? And some tea. Mary Margaret swears by it when you’re sick, and I just had it laying around and-”

“Swan?” he interrupted, before she could make more excuses.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to upset you, but I think we might be friends.”


	13. Slice of Life: June

**Slice of Life**

**June 2017**

**Killian Jones**

Reporting to you live from this dreary pocket of Scotland, allow me to catch you up.

It's raining. Disgustingly often. And if that were not dispiriting enough, the dreaded lurgy is upon me. As I type this, breathing remains a chore, my head foggy. If there is indeed goodness in the world, it is hard to make out through this Lemsip-induced haze. Not exactly the auspicious start to summer I was planning.

But you shouldn't worry about me. I'm a survivor, and I refuse to be felled by the common cold.

But of course, you don't care about that. All you care about is whether or not I've heard from a certain Emma Swan, and how her date with the mysterious "Grant" went. Aye, I've read your messages. Becoming a bedridden disease monster leaves one plenty of time to lurk about in the comment section.

So you'll be pleased to know that I did have a visit from a certain American this afternoon, who came bearing glad tidings and industrial-sized quantities of phenylephrine. Bless her.

She is unsurprisingly tight-lipped on the Grant situation, except to indicate that it is still… unfolding.

She reminds me it is not really any of your business, or indeed, mine, who she does or does not date. The hashtag is  _#FindEmmaSwanAFriend_  after all, not  _#FindEmmaSwanADate_. And the lass has a point there.

My fault, of course, for running with it in the first place.

So, I return to the glad tidings. Dreary summer though we are having, it is remarkable for one thing. It gives our American History Lecturer rather a lot more free time to take to the streets of this here city, and discover what she has been missing all those months she suffered through the cold and the dark.

Scottish winters are many things, but forgiving? Not as such. The summers mightn't be much better, but the days are inordinately longer. Plenty of time for lingering in new environs, umbrella at the ready.

Which brings us to Emma Swan's new method of making friends, and a new one for our general list:  _Lean into Your Interests._

It probably does not surprise you to learn that our heroine is a bit of a nerd when it comes to all things musty and historical. Seven hells, the lass has a PhD in musty and historical. It's something of a theme. And what is Edinburgh, but a relic of the Enlightenment, still trading on the fact to sell T-shirts and keyrings?

Which brings us to something truly unique for us. Emma didn't join an organisation.  _She formed one_. I know. It's like watching a baby chick fall off a branch and take flight. Remarkable.

It's a walking group, of sorts. Only the exercise is purely incidental, as they make their way from one historically significant destination to another. A group intended for boffins, run by boffins. Or boffin, at any rate.

And the glad tidings I spoke of? They just had their first successful outing, a personalised tour of Craigmillar Castle, where I assume scholarly arguments were had by all, and 16th century ghosts well and truly bothered.

I'm not sure I imagined this, when we first began this little adventure. I believe at the time I was labouring under the impression I would be spearheading every friend-making effort. That Emma would remain a reluctant, if vital, participant of our experiment. But against all odds, it seems I was wrong.

Emma might not be quite settled yet into this corner of the world, but she's actively fighting to become so.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it is done.


	14. July - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey. I started writing this chapter last July, as I rode the train back to Edinburgh in a torrential downpour. Now it's March and I've been back living in Australia for six months already. I guess you could say this one took a bit of effort? Sorry. This is Part One. There will be a Part Two from Killian soonish.

_SOS. My boss is wearing a powdered wig, and a guy in US flag speedos and nothing else just spilled punch down my dress. ES_

_**What's this? A damsel in distress? Sounds like a perfect opportunity for a certain bearded gentleman to swoop in. One with cocktail knowledge and combat experience. Where is dear Rambo tonight? KJ** _

_Don't call him that. And he's in Belfast, doing research. You know, like academics are supposed to do? ES_

_**Ah, yes. Research. I've heard of it. KJ** _

_That's it? No daring rescue plan? We have a code T here. ES_

_**Code T? KJ** _

_T for Transparent. As in, my dress. From being soaked through with_ punch _by that asshole. Am I painting a clear enough picture? ES_

_**I assure you, the image is extremely vivid. You might've led with that. Where is this damnable affair taking place, again? KJ** _

* * *

**Emma**

It wasn't that Emma was ashamed of where she came from. Not exactly. Recent election results aside, she had to acknowledge she hadn't ended up teaching American History by accident. Even when her country frustrated her, you had to admit, it was never boring. It was just...

She'd never been a foreigner before. Not really. A week in Cabo. That time Mary Margaret had forced her to third-wheel on a couple's ski trip to the Laurentians. Because that wasn't awkward at all.

But if she'd thought her American-ness would be a novelty in Scotland, she'd been seriously deluding herself.

Between the onset of summer vacation, the Instagram-worthy architecture and the enduring appeal of Jamie Fraser, there had never been more Americans in Edinburgh than there were at that moment. The Outlander Effect, they were calling it.

And Emma couldn't exactly miss them. They were everywhere, and not just herding en masse down the Royal Mile. On the bus. Crowding into the Jinglin' Geordie on Open Mic Night. Talking group assignments in the Starbucks line. Hell, a lot of her own students came equipped with homegrown accents, her class allowing their studies to mesh seamlessly with the syllabus back home.

Most encounters were pretty jarring. Like listening to your own voice played back on a recording.

_Do I really sound like that?_

She hoped not.

_Did it really take me that long to figure out it isn't pronounced Edin-burg?_

No comment.

_Do I really have trouble translating common anglicisms?_

Only sometimes.

Usually when they came out of the mouth of someone like Will Scarlet, and she couldn't tell if he was using some highly localized Derbyshire dialect, or if he was just fucking with her.

Sure, Killian tried a little too hard to sound like some kind of dashing 17th-century buccaneer most of the time, but at least it was still recognizable as a form of English. With Will though, she could never really be sure.

Still, after nearly a year, she liked to think she had a handle on things. She could order a 'Laphroaig' without completely mangling it, and knew enough to keep an umbrella on her person at all times. And if and when her cravings for American snack foods struck, they were being plenty satisfied by her local Sainsbury's, who kept one shelf fully stocked with all of the Twinkies, Peanut Butter Cups, and Lucky Charms a girl could ever wish for.

So when her Head of Department was looking for volunteers for their annual Fourth of July barbecue, Emma had to admit she did try to get out of it.

It was her own fault, really. It was summer. She should've been sunning it up in the Algarve with the rest of her colleagues, day drinking, and returning her skin tone to a less deathly pallor. Instead, she was the sucker who'd been roped into teaching Summer School classes to a revolving door of international students, who were keen to let some of the school's reputation rub off on them, without the three or four year commitment. Every three weeks a new lot arrived, and Emma's life descended into Groundhog Day as she repeated her lectures anew, reliving the same debates and excuses on a constant loop.

So she only had herself to blame when the department head went looking for warm bodies, that hers was the only one still lingering in the corridors.

"Great!" her boss said, clapping her hands together. "Don't forget to wear something festive!"

_Festive._

There was no way this wasn't going to be a disaster.

* * *

The damsel in distress line might've rankled her, but she had to hand it to the guy, he came through.

Fifteen minutes after she'd barricaded herself in the bathroom after The Fruit Punch Incident she was summoned curbside, arms still determinedly crossed over her chest, to where a black cab sat idling, an incorrigible Englishman leaning against it holding up a leather holdall.

"Does Elsa know you went through her closet?" she asked, eyeing the bag.

"Who do you think paid for the cab?" he grinned.

Emma really needed to send that woman a fruit basket or something. Did people still do that? Send fruit baskets? Elsa would know. She probably went to one of those fancy Swiss finishing schools, where you learned shit like that.

The bag even  _smelled_  expensive as Killian handed it over, his eyes dropping for the first time to properly take in her ruined outfit, and lingering.

"Don't even say it," she warned, as he fought to suppress a grin.

She was never wearing a white sundress again. Ever.

"If anyone could pull it off..." he began, but a warning finger cut him off.

The picture of innocence, he raised his hands and stepped away. Which was precisely the moment Emma realized they were not, in fact, alone.

"In a spot of bother, milady?" came the cheerful greeting from the figure still wedged into the backseat of the cab, waving at her.

Robin. Attractive single Dad Robin, with the Oxbridge accent, criminal mastermind father, and good sense to keep his eyes averted.

"What the hell?" Emma hissed under her breath, whacking Killian in the shoulder. "Are we charging admission for my humiliations now?"

"Easy, lass," he said, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him. "I was out with Robin when you texted. I was hardly going to leave him on his own, now was I? Not very good form."

She glanced back to where Robin sat, whistling to himself, then back to Killian. "Oh, so now you're the honorable one?"

"What's this?" he scoffed. "An attack on my character? And after I've orchestrated such a dashing rescue? A fair maiden in distress and I'm on the spot."

The indignation would've been a little easier to swallow if his grin hadn't been quite so… wolfish.

"Yeah, right," Emma said with a roll of her eyes. "Like this isn't making it into your column."

He didn't deny it. He didn't need to. Just offered her a clumsy wink, and motioned to the building before them.

"One good turn deserves another, don't you think?" he suggested, and Emma's stomach dropped. "How does one merit an invitation to an exclusive gathering of expatriates, exactly? Do they check passports at the door? Make you recite the Pledge of Allegiance?"

He held his prosthetic over his heart, and affixed a solemn expression.

"Wrong hand, asshole," she said, grabbing his wrist and tugging his hand back down by his side.

"Probably for the best," Killian shrugged. "I confess I don't actually know the words. Does the School of Rock version count?"

"You seriously want to go up there? You know they're celebrating their independence from the English, right?"

"I'm a journalist, Swan. An arbiter of truth. Would you really deny me the materials I need to make an honest living?"

"You're a hack," Emma grumbled, clutching the bag of clothes to her chest.

"Aye, that I am," Killian agreed, dropping his voice at least an octave. "But a rather dashing one, don't you think?"

So this is how Killian Jones got what he wanted. The ol' razzle dazzle.

It wasn't entirely ineffective. With a huff of annoyance, Emma walked over to lean by the window of the cab. "What do you say, Robin? Want to see my countrymen cut loose and fight about politics?"

He tilted his head, considering her offer. "Do you really put marshmallows in your sweet potatoes?"

"Different holiday. But yeah, we do."

"Alright then," he said, gathering up his belongings where they were strewn across the back seat. "I'll be there presently."

Rapping her knuckles against the side of the cab, she turned back to Killian, who was looking unbearably pleased with himself. Even more than usual.

"Lead the way, lass" he declared, with an exaggerated bow.

"It's a little too late to play at being the gentleman, don't you think?" Emma pointed out.

"Oh?" he asked, his gaze unnervingly direct. "And why is that, Swan?"

If he was trying for intimidation, then he really didn't know Emma well enough. Instead, she simply turned to lead the way back up the stairs to the front stoop, bag swinging by her side. "I'm just saying…" she replied in a sing-song voice. "A gentleman wouldn't have looked."

* * *

When Emma pictured a Fourth of July barbecue, she pictured hot dogs, hyperactive neighborhood kids with water pistols, and sunshine. The Edinburgh version was something very different.

For one thing, it was not a family affair. For another, she doubted you could even really call it a barbecue, when there was no grill in sight. And unfortunately, for Emma, the party was still in full swing when she returned after her costume change, all of her dreams for a quick getaway evaporating along with the last of the punch.

If anything, the numbers had swelled with a sea of Uncle Sams and Lady Liberties spilling out into the garden, wine glasses in hand. If Emma hadn't already realized the gross pay disparity between educators and administrators, the garden would've really sealed it.

You couldn't swing a Heriot Row townhouse on Emma's salary. Hell, you couldn't even swing a Heriot Row  _parking space_  on Emma's salary. Yet somehow, the university muckety-muck who'd been bullied into hosting this little soiree didn't seem to have that problem.

At least the booze was free.

Emma looked longingly over at the refreshments table, but gave it a wide berth. The last thing she needed to do was ruin her borrowed sweater. It was a little on the tight side, but she did appreciate its fuzzy warmth. Even as she wondered if Killian had purposefully picked out the preppiest sweater he could find, or if she was just cursed.

"Hey," came a call from her left. It was a guy in a Captain America outfit, with none of Chris Evan's dimensions. "Ivanka, right?"

Emma looked down at herself, wondering if that was the name of the designer. "I'm sorry?"

"You're dressed as Ivanka Trump, right? Nice."

He was gone before she could deny it, and she glanced back to the gilded mirror in the hallway in alarm. With her hair recently straightened, she had to admit to a passing resemblance. If you squinted.

Oh god.

She had to find the boys and get them out of here, before she was pilloried as a Republican infiltrator.

She scanned the crowd, but the only person in a leather jacket she saw was channeling Maverick from Top Gun. Frustrated, she headed out into the garden, where she spotted Robin, cornered amongst the shrubberies by a very determined looking woman in a Wonder Woman costume.

Was Wonder Woman even American, technically?

Whatever the debates on her true origin, Emma had to admit the woman pulled off the look, even if the cleavage spilling out from the neckline of the outfit was a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen. She was fully fixated on Robin, her fingers trailing up and down his arm, laughing at one of his anecdotes.

As she walked by she shot him a questioning look, in case he needed an assist, but he just gave a wink, and started in on a new story.

Hot Single Dad Robin still had it. And something told her he wouldn't be up for any plan that involved cutting out with her early.

Heaving a sigh, she liberated a Coors Light from an icebox and took another turn around the garden.

"Ivanka?" Another woman asked, her look practically accusatory.

"Elle Woods," Emma blurted out. The sweater was baby blue, not pink, but it was the best she could come up with on the fly.

Hurrying away from that interaction, she rounded a pillar and finally came upon her quarry, sitting alone on a bench beside a gurgling water feature.

"And here I thought you'd be the life of the party," Emma said, snagging the space beside him. She gestured towards where Robin was getting half his face mauled off by Wonder Woman. "Was every other member of the Justice League taken?"

She was rewarded with the ghost of a smile, but his gaze was still fixed ahead, not really seeing, as he rolled an unopened bottle of Budweiser between his fingers.

"You okay?" Emma asked, taking the bottle from his hand and removing the cap with a well-placed tap against the side of the bench.

"Where'd you learn that little trick?" he asked, ignoring her question as he accepted the open bottle.

"A bus shelter in Framingham, Massachusetts." It was more detail than he was expecting, and she nearly laughed at the sudden brightness in his eyes. "It was my first beer. You kind of remember stuff like that."

"You has your first beer in a bus shelter in Framingham Massachusetts?" He repeated it back, like there was something especially weird about that.

"Yeah. I was 14, and in between foster homes. Stole a six pack from the Stop and Shop after the clerk told me off for browsing the magazines. And then some old army vet at the bus shelter showed me how to take the cap off against the side of a trash can."

He furrowed his brows. "You're trying to get me to open up by revealing things about yourself. Which you never do."

"Maybe," Emma offered, taking a swig of her beer. "Is it working?"

He took a long sip on his own bottle, made a face, and then settled it back into his lap. "You mentioned a brush with the law, as a teenager. I'm assuming that wasn't for underage drinking at bus stops?"

Emma grimaced. "Not so much. Possession of stolen goods, with intent to sell. I got lucky. The watch I had on me was worth just shy of $500. They knocked it down to a misdemeanor and I got probation."

"You stole a watch?"

"No, my skeezy boyfriend stole a case of watches. I just happened to be wearing one when he called the cops to frame me while he took off to Canada with the rest."

"When he  _what?!_  Please tell me this wanker is dead in a ditch somewhere." Emma had to admit, she didn't mind his tone. Like he might go out and finish the job, if need be.

Emma shrugged, picking at the label on her bottle. "Probably. I never saw him again after that."

"So that explains it," Killian huffed.

"Explains what?" Emma asked, preparing to get defensive.

"Your Walsh fellow's appeal. I'm guessing he wasn't the larcenous type?"

Oh. Not even remotely.

"Yeah, he was the kind of guy who washed out his jars before he put them in the recycling. He was kind of the anti-Neal."

"That was his name? Neal?"

"Neal Cassidy," Emma sighed. "And yes, like the writer. He had it changed when he was 18 as a Fuck You to his Dad."

"Well, he sounds like a right tosser."

Emma snorted. "Yeah, pretty much."

"And not all that clever, if he thought losing you for a case of watches was an even trade."

That had Emma looking up, sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue. But instead of making fun, Killian's expression was deadly serious, eyes meeting hers directly. Like he actually meant it. Emma's gaze flicked back to the label on her beer, nearly entirely peeled away by this stage, and fought to keep her face level.

"You think so?" she asked, her words coming out less jokingly than she intended.

"I do."

It was the answer that had her looking back up again, a frown forming. "Killian, I-"

"You're worth at least two cases," he added. "Maybe three. I mean, what are we talking here? Cartier? Rolex?" His eyebrow was raised again in that familiar roguish way.

Emma let out a breath, and extinguished the tiny flame that burned somewhere inside her stomach.  _Friends_ , she reminded herself.  _They were friends._

"You're hilarious," Emma replied deadpan. "And if we're going to continue  _sharing_ , I really need something stronger than this," she said, tipping back her head and draining the last of her bottle.

"When I was looking for extra chairs earlier, I think I saw a wet bar in the study. Fancy a dram?" Killian asked, rising to his feet.

"Oh, so you're journalistic snooping does come in handy sometimes?"

"More than sometimes," he said with a grin that would fell a lesser beast. And suddenly Emma wasn't so sure the flame was truly out.

Later, she still couldn't recall whether he'd held out a hand to take her empty bottle, or to help her up. All she knew, was as they moved from the garden back to the party proper, she had Killian's hand in hers.

* * *

_Reasons Not To Push Killian Jones Up Against The Nearest Wall And Have Your Way With Him:_

_1\. Hello, work event. Have some goddamn professionalism._

_2\. You're wearing Elsa's clothes. Don't make this weird._

_3\. You like him, and never talking to him again would suck._

_4\. He would definitely allude to it in his column, and you would have to emigrate. Again._

_5\. Graham._ Oh, fuck. Graham.

* * *

The upstairs study was everything you'd expect from an overpaid university administrator. Soft red leather furnishings. Framed certificates covering an entire wall. A solid oak desk that could, hypothetically, bear the weight of two people at once.

And, oh yeah, the promised wet bar.

Emma was not, nor had she ever been, a cheater. And even if she and Graham were still only in the "getting to know you" phase of tentative texts and PG-13 cocktail hours, she knew betraying that would still be a shitty thing to do.

So when Killian offered her the glass of whisky, she didn't do what she wanted to do, which was down the lot and drag him towards her by the collar. Instead, she sat on the red leather couch as far from him as possible, and held the glass in front of her like a shield.

"Reminds me of your jacket," he said with a smile, letting his hand glide against the upholstery. Emma's skin still tingled from where his hand had gripped hers, so unused to foreign contact.

She took a gulp of her drink, and let it burn down her esophagus in penance for her crimes. Only once she'd regained sufficient control of her hormones did she speak.

"So, are you going to tell me what's been up with you?

"Up with me?" Killian replied, his oh-so-innocent look oh-so-unconvincing. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," Emma said, rolling her eyes heavenward. "The sudden phone emergencies. The brooding. The black eye. You've been different lately. Kind of… subdued, for you."

In answer, Killian drained what was left of his glass, and turned to face her. "Perceptive, aren't you, Swan?" He didn't sound happy about the fact.

Emma shrugged, taking another sip. "You can't kid a kidder."

He considered that, finger tapping absently against the side of his glass. "Perhaps not. Very well then. The truth: The magazine is broke."

It wasn't what Emma had been expecting. What  _had_  she been expecting? A secret drug habit? Abusive new girlfriend? Fight Club?

"Broke?" she repeated.

"Utterly. But instead of accepting the inevitable, and bowing out gracefully, my brother, well-intentioned idiot that he is, decided to take what was left in the coffers and make a few wagers."

Emma's heart sank into her stomach. "He didn't."

"Oh, he did. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, apparently. Lost the lot. Bloody prat. Thought he'd come back a conquering hero. Instead he's having to dip into his own savings to keep the whole operation afloat until he can find a way to pay back his bookie."

That explained the black eye.

"And no one knows about this? Don't you have accountants or something?"

"There is a fellow, Tim, who's been covering for him. Let him take out the entire balance in the first place, didn't he? So now he feels equally culpable. So there's Liam. Tim. Me. And now you."

"Elsa doesn't know?"

"Not in so many words. She isn't bloody stupid though. He's been decidedly distracted on the homefront. Probably thinks he's having a mid-life crisis or an affair or something stupid. Would be easier to just tell her, but the problem is, he knows if she finds out about it she'll feel obligated to help."

"Well, that would be a good thing, right? No more, uhhh…" Emma waved a hand over her eye.

"Well, when Elsa's parents died, they left her a good deal of money. Most of it went towards the house, and setting up her sister in New York, but there's enough left to get Weaver off his back. Problem is, my brother's pride would never let him accept it. And then there's the matter of Elsa's aunt."

"Elsa's aunt?"

"She owns the magazine. And let's just say, she's not quite as err… understanding as Elsa can be. If she gets word of it, there'll be criminal charges."

"Fuck."

"Fuck,' he agreed, leaning forward in his chair to pour himself another whisky.

"And you've just been carrying this all around on your shoulders for what? Months?"

"But what magnificent shoulders, wouldn't you say, Swan?" The grin was almost leering, but not in a good way. More in a defense mechanism kind of way.

"Don't do that," Emma chided, leaning over to smooth the wrinkle above his brows with her fingers. "Just be you."

"And how is that?" He asked, with a look of such genuine curiosity that her hand paused somewhere in the region of his jaw.

"Same as me," Emma shrugged. "A little fucked up. A little scared."

She leaned forward then, and placed a kiss on that same spot above his brow.

Maybe it wasn't where she'd wanted to kiss him five minutes ago, but it felt right. She heard him inhale sharply underneath her, but she didn't immediately break contact. Not until his face relaxed, and his arms came up to wrap around her waist.

She let her head fall onto his shoulder, and his on hers, breathing each other in. Comfortable fucking silence.

Only when her phone started chirping in her pocket did she pull away at last, steadying herself on his shoulders. "You're going to be okay, Killian Jones. You and your fucked up family."

The grin was wry, but it was real.

"You going to get that?" he asked, ducking his chin down to where they were practically intertwined. Probably best not to add vibration to the mix.

She fished the phone out of her pocket, and checked the caller ID.

August.

He never called. He sent ten page letters typed up on his pretentious vintage typewriter, but he never called.

With a look of apology, she peeled herself off of Killian's lap, and hit accept.

"August? Is someone dead?"

"Em! Where are you?" Wherever he was, he sounded cheerful. And just a little bit drunk. Well, it was the Fourth of July.

"Where am I? I'm in Scotland, where I'm supposed to be. How much have you had to drink?"

"Nooo," he corrected, words slurring a little. "I mean, where right now? Someone in your department told me you were at this party. But no one remembers seeing you. Are you here?"

Emma's stomach lurched. "Party? You mean, in Edinburgh?"

"Of course, in Edinburgh! The party I'm at, it's at… hang on," his words muffled as he conferred with nearby partygoers, "17 Heriot Row?"

_Oh. Fucking. Fuck. Fucking August and his fucking surprises._

"I'll be five minutes. Stay right where you are."

Feeling the color draining from her face, she ended the call, and tucked her phone back into the pocket of her borrowed jeans. "We need to get downstairs. I need to-" She looked around for a mirror, but there were none in the vicinity.  _Of course._

"Lass?" He had her by the elbow, holding her still. "What has you all a-flutter?"

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. "You remember I mentioned my friend August?"

"Knee still creaks when it rains, August?" The boy did have superior recall. "Novelist August?"

"Yeah. Anyway, he's downstairs."


End file.
